Games We Play
by Sidonh
Summary: In which Sherlock draws yet another soul to his crime solving escapades by the simple virtue of him not being as boring as the rest of his peers. The only problem was that she was a criminal and criminals should really stay away from detectives. It wasn't how her return to London was supposed to go. But then, at least dead bodies are more original than welcome-home parties.
1. Chapter 1

**The Players**

* * *

_"Data! Data! Data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." ~ __Sherlock Holmes, "__The Adventure of the Copper Beeches'_

* * *

Murder has been a prevalent act in history. From cities built in blood to the thug in a leather mask walking slowly with an axe in his grip, they have fascinated.

He picks up his knife, already wet with gore and he can hear the girl in the corner. Crying. Begging. He doesn't know why. He can't _understand_ why. The con-man sitting at the bar table drinks his drink, fakes care, fascinates the onlookers and pretends he doesn't want to murder every single one in that room. He drinks his drink and dreams of blood. A man picked up a gun. That will teach them. They kill every day, bloodlessly but savagely with words and papers. Is what he does any different? Why should they live normal lives when his had been taken? Lessons must be learned. Mistakes must be corrected. Karma always turns. It is the way of life.

That is the frightening truth: people kill. Because they feel like they must, because they need to, because they want to, because they were born that way. And it is such a depraved, selfish act you cannot help but be drawn to it.

He remembered a time when guns scared him. Blood used to make him throw up or even faint. As he handled the bullets and weapon with gloves, he could only think of how right it felt. How, up until that sweet moment when the life left his victim's eyes, everything felt dull and colourless.

He thought how he'd felt leaden and stiff for his whole life up until the moment he discovered what he could do, as if he had been awakened from a very long sleep. It took an effort just to wiggle his fingers and his worn, old leather gloves crackled.

Slowly and silently, he rose to his feet. He looked out the narrow space of his window in the home beneath the stairs and felt that the time was just right.

There was a dry, dusty click. For a moment, nothing happened. Then with a groan of rusty metal and a rasp of wood, the door jerked partway open.

He had another job to do.

* * *

Lestrade wanted to walk beside the Thames again. The ritual of his quiet days seemed too dull for a man accustomed to daily deal with the worst London could throw at him, but it was peaceful and safe. And he liked it.

He would pick up his laundry, always at the same place, and he would smile at the man behind the counter. He would then walk – not drive – home, to the one place he felt safe and solitary and order some food or open a bottle of cheap wine.

That was as rare a possibility as a blue moon. It seemed non-existent when the papers clogged his desk like leaves did a drain pipe on an autumn day.

He wasn't the only one working late (others had come in for the night shift) but he was probably the only one who had no immediate plans of sleeping. Reading them again and again had only helped at further imprinting them inside of his mind to the point where he neither wanted nor could sleep. Sally had wanted to stay with him but he'd sent her home. After all, there was nothing new to process and having both of them asleep and on a perilous precipice to caffeine overdose was unnecessary.

Sherlock hadn't helped much, either. At the last crime scene he had shouted for data to no one in particular – except perhaps an unforgiving sky – and stormed off, leaving an unforgettable impression on younger members of the forensic team and even more so on the veterans who knew his antics.

The chief superintendent had made it clear that he wanted results and all officers were on alert. And of course he had been the one saddled with it as most weird cases were.

When the phone rang, a childish urge emerged like a tidal wave telling him not to answer. His experience beat it down to a slow trickle of rain. The voice at the other end told of another murder and he was glad he had been sitting down.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was not bored. He was thinking.

It was only coincidence that his thinking resembled violin string plucking to mere humans, and not even particularly energetic one at that, but that was not his fault.

John Watson thought that he was doing that explicitly to piss him off and he pressed the keys of his laptop keyboard with a grudge and force he'd have loved to apply to his flatmate's neck. He'd been previously warned that violin playing was a living hazard, but he'd, rather foolishly, believed that it would actually be _playing_ instead of specifically choosing the chords that annoyed him most and then _thwacking_ them.

The latest case, still unsolved, tainted their living room in forms of photos, forensic reports and odds and ends that the only consulting detective in the world had found important.

Without any more input data for his mind and a mistake from the killer, not even Sherlock Holmes could figure things out though not for lack of trying.

After their meeting and indeed, first case together, John had settled into Sherlock's life and vice versa. Their story – still left unnamed in John's laptop – had brought them together better than sharing rooms had. Indeed, after that first case, it had been fairly quiet. And then this.

What John waited for with the patience of a saint, was the moment Sherlock put down his violin and started pacing.

It was irritating, but not as much as the plucking. Despite being a spontaneous mess of odd actions when bored or during a case, thinking Sherlock was a fairly predictable beast. So the doctor ceased his tapping – answering e-mails, drafts of his writing –and began browsing his internet haunts: some funny comics, some blogs and a forum in which he mainly lurked.

Sherlock occasionally wandered behind his back, stared with soul searing eyes at the screen, scoffed and returned to his pacing. It was less unnerving than when he did it with people. The detective had the sort of gaze that clearly dissected and a permanent expression on his face that said you were found lacking. As if your constant, dull, existence was a disappointment solely for existing.

Still, John said nothing, for now, while he was working on a case and not destroying their home bit by bit.

The ringing phone startled them both.

* * *

Leaving JFK airport involved facing mouth-breathing overworked TSA agent hordes who found her cleavage too unremarkable to warrant a pass given the contents of her carry-on bag and a lecture on young women travelling alone with a large amount of consumer electronics and no luggage other than a backpack.

The twelve hour flight had been an exercise in patience that not even free drinks and sixty-percent wider shoulder spaces had eased. Businessmen tapped on their laptops or snored, children turned hyper or scared – which happened even in first class – amazed tourists gasping in awe at – apparently – clouds and then, entitled rich people who thought harassing a flight attendant was made possible by virtue of loads and loads of dosh.

The sounds seemed like they'd stopped being filtered through her ears and as a result, she could hear, feel, taste and smell it.

American citizen Catherine Sachs was then pushed along, her certificates scrutinized, half-drunk from scotch and more than half-dizzy from the flight. Keeping her native British accent in check had been a strain.

By the time she was out of the airport, the sun was still technically up. Not that she could tell. The saying that "The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire" was only still true by virtue of the fact that it had never really risen in the first place. It was dark, then it was light and if you were lucky, through the thick patch of clouds, you could see a slightly yellowish spot like a mustard stain on a dirty tablecloth.

She was perversely wide awake despite not sleeping for forty-eight hours and so miserable she wished to be confused for a tourist just to have an excuse to bite the taxi driver's head off.

The universe continued in its perversity by denying her even that amount of relatively righteous anger by not having any black cabs available by the time she exited the building, forcing her to walk. Stealing a car or conning a ride would have only drawn attention.

To add insult to injury, it had started to drizzle.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Game**

* * *

_"Murder will out, 'tis sure, nor ever fails, a__nd chiefly when God's honour vengeance needs._

_The blood cries out upon your cursed deeds" __~ Geoffrey Chaucer, "Canterbury Tales"_

* * *

Picture this.

It was twelve forty-five at night, on the seventh of March.

It was a dark and stormy night. Of course it was. It took place in London.

The last train carrying the general public left Aldwych on the evening of 30th September 1994. He remembered that vividly.

He had liked that station. He vaguely remembered when it was closed off for six years to be used as an air raid shelter during the Second World War, the unused tunnels storing art and treasures from the British Museum. That had been a long time ago and he felt old just for remembering. The church nearby, St. Mary Le Strand had been destroyed in the bombing back then too, before being magnificently restored in the 50's and its spire was gleaming at him with familiarity.

The old man shoved his hands in his pockets and waited, despite the rain. He had been born and raised in London. Rain was rain. In fact, it wasn't really London if it didn't rain and entire spring season was the most unpredictable.

He heard footsteps behind him, mingling with the cold, small drops and turned around with a grin, to meet his associate.

That was the last thing he ever heard.

Half an hour later uniforms were at the scene. Half an hour after that, the DI took over of the scene and, fifteen minutes later Sherlock stepped out of the cab and wrestled control over, apparently, the whole street. He was much like the London fog in that way, rolling around and taking up _everything_, being lethal to the elderly and the young. In which case, Lestrade felt pretty damn elderly. He was, in fact, completely blaming his salt and pepper hair on him.

"Think it's the same guy?" John asked, to fill the uncomfortable silence that reigned over them while the detective took in the details of the body, looking for all intent and purpose as if he was re-enacting some sort of morbid interpretative dance routine.

The body of the geriatric man whose wallet ID'd him as Henry Gilbert was cooling on the pavement. He was spread on his back as he'd fallen, hands at his side as if crucified. A large crimson blossom stained his shirt and throat, where the bullet had entered and his skin was ghastly white. His glasses were still on as was his hat, though quite a bit bent.

You didn't really get fedoras like that anymore.

Lestrade tried to keep his mind at the scene. Donovan had decided to take statements, veer off civilians and generally be in any place Sherlock wasn't. He couldn't blame her.

As for John…well, Lestrade didn't know what to think of John, seeing as the man looked and behaved like a normal person, something that the detective decidedly was not and probably didn't even want to be.

He'd have thought of it as 'dull'.

"The gun wound's the same" he sighed as a response. "As is the bullet. It came out through the other side. The time is about right, too" Lestrade shook his head. What a way to go… "There are a lot of differences, though"

Like the location. That was damn different. It was the first body killed somewhere else other than their home. Or maybe the killer was just getting started. They had made a profile out of the killings. It was generally considered a bad sign when they went off pattern, but so far, the patterns had been less than foolproof. The time and the bullet seemed like the only thing that stayed the same.

And Sherlock was growing more irate by the minute, which did not spell out a good time for anyone.

"Computer addict, widower. His wife died twenty, twenty-five years ago. He stayed indoors mostly" he said with a tone that almost indicated a grudge as he lifted the man's upper lip. "He had money, but he was frugal. He must have been waiting for someone and he walked a long way to get here"

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked, as was mostly customary.

"His coat, his hat, his shoes…they're soaked, but it was a rather mild rain. He walked here and got caught in it, then waited for a short period before he was shot"

That was it, though. Oh, personal details stood here and there. His hands were rather soft, good for delicate work, his shoes were polished by hand, he had loved his wife but moved on…that sort of thing. But nothing _relevant_. Nothing to show him much about the killer.

Sherlock hated that. He would have enjoyed the little game is the killer had even thought about making it some sort of game or if he would have gloated or even send mildly threatening notes to the police. He didn't.

He just wanted to kill people, so he did. In fact, it wasn't even that certain that it was a 'he'. Sure, the statistics were completely in favour of the male gender but it wasn't impossible for the killer to be a woman, therefore it was still a possibility. In his head, there were at least ten probable theories and twenty-four possible ones but there was absolutely nothing to filter them all by.

It was a lot more frustrating than other cases, but at least he wasn't bored anymore.

So when Lestrade said "Well, me and some of the guys are going to check out his apartment, want to come?" he was the first one to get into a cab.

* * *

What had started as a rather cold day of March developed into a freezing night with drizzling rain, the type in which no one could pass off as distinguished or even dignified. Thereof, she was dripping, partway between the apartment and the outside world through the open window, trying to get inside with a bit of class.

She failed.

She fell onto her arse, one boot caught on the windowsill, the other in the curtain.

Very undignified.

She scrambled to her feet, hoisting the large backpack on her shoulder and looked about.

Milo always came through the window. The entire building was a security system made up of old biddies who got so bored at home, they butted into other people's business. Just going up the stairs meant having four eyes watching from behind each door. It gave her the chills.

"Gills?" she asked, looking about. The kitchen and the living room were in the same space, empty. She checked his bedroom, also empty and knocked at the bathroom door. After a few seconds, she came to the obvious conclusion that there was no one there.

A note, however, was. It was placed on the old man's laptop.

_M,_

_Meeting E. Will come back as soon as possible. Make yourself at home. There's hot cocoa in the pot._

_Love,_

_H_

She smiled and dropped her backpack to the floor, regardless of her own laptop and skipped to the kitchen area. The cocoa was indeed in a pot, because he knew she hated tea, and a chipped mug was recently washed and set on the table.

She grinned as the sense of safety washed over her. There were few places she considered safe, but she could always count on one of them being in London. And that was _her _mug. She liked broken things almost as much as she liked broken people.

She poured a generous amount and left her boots and coat off to dry. Then she sat down on the sofa with the certain awkwardness of one who wanted and should have felt at home, but didn't. It had been years since she'd last saw Henry and it hadn't been in exactly hushed tones. There was generally a lot to argue about in the world of crime.

Henry had had a happy childhood, a fulfilling young adult life and a regular adult life. He had seen the Second World War happen, even if only a part of it and he had been too young then to participate in it. But he had a certain idea of right and wrong instilled by his elders and tough situations. He had _principles_.

Milo had never had them and if she ever did, they were probably stolen.

It had made relationships somewhat tense. He wrapped more layers of shadows around himself, effectively passing off as a ghost. He had a dozen fake addresses, all under different names, mail and items being delivered to trusted people, an entire web of intrigue on his location and real name and most importantly, the favour of almost all the major crooks in the area. Despite that, he'd always been courteous to her, which made her feel guilty. She thought that he had planned that.

Nothing should have happened to him, yet she called him anyway, to no avail. Then she called Eddie, but he too, didn't answer. With _him_, she hadn't argued.

Something was wrong.

She took to pacing a bit, finished the cocoa and when that was done, slammed right into the quality scotch and lit a cigarette. The world was always better to face with alcohol in you.

She rifled through his old books for a bit, looking at the signed ones, then moved on the more recent acquisitions, those that needed to be read in order to earn their spot on the shelf. A green piece of paper fell out of one and she took a look. It was a brochure for Green Fields Retirement Home with Henry's tight writing saying "E.L – L.A" Milo frowned.

Then she did something that was generally considered quite a large faux-pas in the world of fences Henry belonged to. She opened the old man's laptop and starting buggering about. He had hidden databases of people he did business with, databases of items that had reached him, databases of items that had been stolen and _hadn't_ gotten to him. She perused the list of business he'd gotten lately and frowned. There was a very small amount of transactions done lately, perhaps less than there should have been, only with people he had frequent prior dealings with and for good money.

To her, that did mean retirement.

And he hadn't even said a word to her.

He was an interfering old baggage, who took to coddling her like a child and generally fussed about, but deep down they were what one might call friends. So when a dramatic e-mail consisting of:

_I need help. Please, come to my apartment, tonight._

showed up in her inbox, she settled all of her affairs and took the first flight to London. It might have been about his retirement; it might have been about a recent transaction gone sour; it might have been about Eddie – Eddie who had had fortune and infamy get to his head. But his files didn't reflect any of it. She took off her watch and connected it to the laptop, copying all the data on it.

It might have been unfair, ill-mannered and perhaps even offensively intrusive, but Milo rarely cared about any of that. Manners and goodwill were for regular people, she used to say, and 'regular people' tended to sound like an insult every time.

She also checked his e-mail address, which stupidly logged on by itself, but all the e-mails had been carefully deleted, as was generally customary.

Then she went to the window to watch the street. What she expected – or more appropriately, what she wished – was to see was an old man, still wearing a fedora and a cloth handkerchief folded in a two-point at his suit pocket, cross the street and enter the building. What she got was a police car stopping right at the entrance.

She didn't panic. It took quite a lot to make Milo even worry, but her mind definitely entered overdrive.

She ran towards the still connected watch, tapped the keys on the laptop with accurate efficiency, running a self-made program that scrambled the MFT and the bytes of all the data she wanted to remove before deleting them, running her clothed forearm over the keyboard to erase prints and shutting the computer down. She ran to the bedroom, next, while strapping her watch back on. In there, for the past five years or so, Henry had stashed a go-bag, at her suggestion. It was a faded dark coloured duffle of medium size. Beneath the pillow was a handgun.

She took them both with her.

Then she shoved her wet clothes into her backpack and tossed it all out the window.

By the time the landlord had been rudely awoken and opened the door with his key, she was long gone.

* * *

"There was someone else here" Sherlock said, squinting at the window.

He'd burst in like he owned the place, large steps and eyes creeping over every object in sight. The entire room was his stage and he didn't just observe. He composed. He stood taller, even when sitting or crouching, his head was elevated, he came across as superior. He pissed everyone off.

"Came through the window" he muttered and walked, still bent at the waist, towards the small kitchen area. "Had cocoa" he rose and sniffed.

"Is that…relevant?" Lestrade asked, fairly doubtful.

"I don't know" he answered and went inside the bedroom, then bathroom, before coming back inside and staring at the sofa.

Lestrade crossed his arms, impatiently. "Anything?"

The clear answer was, not really.

There was still no connection.

The old man had money, style, little treasures gathered along his years: china plates, a silver, antique photo frame polished to perfection, a small, old vase, a baroque lamp, an old, worn Persian carpet, editio princeps books on the shelves. They all clashed with an ugly neon orange rug, so a present or something equally sentimental.

He had had porcelain veneers dated almost five years back so the money was not recent. Had enough cash to get them but not enough to have an apartment in a better side of London, or better curtains. Frugal, as he had thought, but not without style or hobbies. The only thing that looked vaguely cheap was a chipped little tea mug on an unmatched saucer sitting on the side of the sink, to dry.

Sherlock answered, a bit more half-hearted than he would have wished, but still, his deductions were spoken rapidly and to the point, like bullets. "The man was a recluse. Didn't go out at all. He had all he needed right there" he pointed to the laptop. "Had a few casual acquaintances. Not good enough to visit often, but enough to warrant sentimental gifts"

"So, completely different from the last two" the DI said, displeased, refusing to ask for more details on the how, seeing as the answers didn't even matter anymore.

But Sherlock's mind was focused on something else. Someone had been there that night.

There was water that had dried on the wood floor in the shape of very tiny feet, a chipped mug recently washed, but not the pot and there was a faint smell of cigarettes in the air.

Clove.

He spotted a piece of green paper sitting on the table, looked at it and frowned before pocketing it. He didn't want Lestrade ruining it before he had a shot at investigating and if anything came out of it, fine. If not, he wouldn't have to explain his wrong deductions.

Then Donovan entered the room carrying a notepad and a pen.

"I have the statements. Apparently, the victim didn't leave his flat much. The neighbours barely saw him go in or out. He even gets his groceries delivered"

Sherlock had noticed that, in fact. Henry had been a neat man, but not pathologically so. Every visible wrapper from his garbage can was from a different delivery company. Either the man was paranoid or a very bad tipper.

"He usually had many visitors at any hours of the day or night. Lately, however, he hasn't been seeing as many people. Always paid his rent on time, quite often in advance and he baked cookies that he shared with his neighbours. Chocolate Chip" she closed the notebook. "And there was a call from the lab. They just got the evident and they're still running tests but they're fairly sure that the bullet that killed him was from the same gun as the one that killed the previous two"

Three bodies put the man as an official serial killer, and yet they still had nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Setting the Tables**

* * *

"_If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes and the quitting time"_

* * *

Sleep was a commodity.

You could sleep at night, if you were one of the regular people or if you had nothing pressing to do, but if you did, you just went along, riding the adrenaline and caffeine. And walked.

You had to walk for a bit, otherwise you'd fall asleep in the cab.

She reached the apartment building door fairly quickly, riding London's back alleys and gliding along the shadows like a ghost on a mission.

Eddie's window was clearly visible from the street. It was covered by curtains.

Eddie never drew his curtains.

He was a particular type of paranoid, different than hers. She liked to draw hers to keep others from looking in. He liked to keep his open to spot the incoming police car.

Eddie hadn't exactly kept himself safe. In fact, people would have described him as slightly moronic, a sleazy little man with the morals of an alley cat who had only prospered because he fit the life's stereotype oh so well. He had his little sausage-like fingers in everything from drugs to property. Had been arrested for possession and spent a couple of years in prison before calling in a lot of favours to get out. Then he went right back into the fray, efficiently sponsoring every enterprising grifter, thief and dip and having something to do with most of the gangs in the city. Even the ones that broke fingers for a living.

Eddie was an entire family of mobsters all on his own.

And she'd seen him rise to glory. Most importantly, she'd seen him succumb to the entire crime world mentality. Few people knew that he had actually been a decent person. Granted, a greedy, somewhat sleazy bloke but a people person who understood exactly what it meant to rise from nothing. And as a former construction worker, who knew who he had worked for, had a special distaste for the upper class, who had screwed both him and his former colleagues.

Then, as so many others, he got the taste of money, never looked back. He had become the upper class, albeit the dodgy bit.

Henry, loyal, moral and always a bit preachy hated that. Milo saw him as a working contact and nothing else. He was good to know but insufferable to deal with.

She circled the building once. His old jalopy was still parked in its old place, where it had rusted for almost ten years continuously, to the point where it looked like a vat of copper on shoddy, deflated wheels; a tiny remnant of the man who had first stepped onto the path of millions and felonies.

He wouldn't have driven in London, only outside of it, to avoid cabs, thus trails. There was no sign of the police cars, either.

She didn't have to break into the building. All building locks were standard in one form or another and she'd studied it, right before Eddie purchased a place in it. She unlocked it with a key and ran up the stairs. When she got to Eddie's door, there was no yellow tape. She knocked. When that didn't work, she rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

There wasn't even the slight noise of someone trying very hard to not appear at home.

She patted the pockets of her jacket and pulled out some plastic gloves, which she put on, then her small velvet pouch.. She carefully positioned the torsion wrench and picked one of the many lock picks. Of course, Eddie had been a paranoid bastard and had gone for a lock with security pins, but she could do those too. All that needed was careful reverse picking and gradually reducing torsion. Within a minute, the door opened.

The apartment was better furnished than she remembered but that was because back then, all Ed could afford were milk crates.

The front door lead to an atrium that opened to a large living room with an adjourned kitchen and a hallway towards a bathroom, bedroom and utility room with a washing machine, cool box and dryer. It was large and well-appointed with a big TV screen, black leather furniture, granite work surfaces, wooden floors and a bathroom with under-floor heating. He'd bought it all after one of their big jobs and he'd been so proud of it.

He invited her over daily, for nearly two months, but at the time she hadn't cared about anything, including him. She was always busy, always orchestrating the next big thing with marks that didn't really call the cops, which were, really, the worst kind because they didn't arrest corpses, after all.

Everything was neat and every knick knack carefully arranged in shelves.

Eddie didn't trust cleaning ladies but he took care of his place every weekend if only because he had ladies over. Usually paid ladies.

That was the trouble with wealth. Once you had it, you had the instinct to protect it from unsavoury characters, even those that would supposedly worked for you. Or tried to seduce you.

If she closed her eyes, she could see the entire apartment like a blueprint, in her mind.

The living room was dark. The only light was emanated from an electronic binary clock on the wall. She turned on the lights but the feeling of wrongness in the room persisted.

Small things like the moved papers, the dust or the shoes, left unclean at the door, the empty key bowl with some change in it jumped at her, giving her a headache. The brandy that was nearly done – he never drank brandy; the light bulb burned to a near brown shade from over-use – something he wouldn't have done with his desire for neatness; the wrinkles of the carpet, the place of the remote control or the way the pens were tossed in a bundle on the coffee table.

Eyes on the floor, she walked to the counter. The vodka – Eddie's poison – was at half, yet somewhat dusty, even if he usually didn't even give it time to let said dust settle.

The entire place looked as though it hadn't been lived in for weeks.

The bedroom was empty, the bed was unmade, tousled but everything else was perfect. As was the bathroom and kitchen. Then she went to the utility room, where she lingered. There were clothes in the washing machine, only no one had turned it on. Others were in the hamper, smelling slightly moulted. They hadn't been shoved in the dryer. She opened the cooler, casually, like most people who, in the middle of the night opened their refrigerator for no reason.

It was good for thinking.

She nearly shrieked.

Oh, she'd seen dead bodies before, yes, but none were supposed to sneak up on you.

A pale bearded face with a large bald spot and dead eyes was looking upwards. A red stain covered his shirt around his midriff, covering the ice, explaining the look of anguish on his face.

He'd bled out, if he hadn't frozen first.

"Oh, Eddie…" she muttered to herself. She closed the lid, unceremoniously and leaned on the wall. She didn't lean on the cooler itself for fear of erasing fingerprints, if there were any, which shocked her a bit.

It meant her conscience already had decreed that she'd call the police. Fancy that, getting a conscience after all those years.

Of course, she couldn't be the one to get the cops. It wasn't simply the fact that she generally disliked them but an increased exposure to the police force would have dangerously escalated her paranoia to the point where she'd be forced to stay in an underground box with just a torch and a gun for a couple of months.

She needed a course of action, and of course, needed to know what happened to Henry.

Eddie's house looked like he hadn't been alive and kicking for weeks so who, exactly, was Henry meeting? And why? And why send her that dramatic e-mail?

She poked around the bedroom for a bit, looking for the Eddie's go-bag. There was none, which meant the killer had taken it. That meant he knew who Eddie had been, prior to killing him. Telephone calls yielded no sound of either ringtone or vibrations, so it was a good thing that she dialled off of the phone she regularly tossed away.

Which meant that the man was clearly a moron.

Disabling the city's finest bellman meant tearing right through the criminal economy for months, maybe. And Henry getting out of the picture was a part of that. People who owed rent, people with drugs to place or merchandise to sell would have to resort to other means. The entire underworld would just wobble around, uncertain of itself and spinning on the spot, inevitably taking the rest of London with it. Most of the major cities were, if not largely dependent on its criminals, at least dependent on their money.

She went to the bar, where she picked out a dark bottle of cheap booze. It was hidden amidst other, more expensive bottles but no one other than a connoisseur would have known the difference. She took the cap off and turned it upside down. Five thin rolls of cash fell out and bounced to her palm. She pocketed it and put the bottle back.

It wasn't as if he needed it anymore.

Then she got her own phone out and dialled out of memory.

* * *

The door to an apartment on the fourth floor was open and uniforms were keeping people away.

It wasn't all that often that the police were in your building and weren't looking for you, which made it safe for ogling for both the people on the floor in question, who had unrivalled seats and various onlookers from less privileged floors with nothing better to do.

Sherlock and John had to squeeze past the small mob just to reach the door.

Inside, Sergeant Donovan was standing by a woman with thick black hair and dressed in a red tight number barely covered by a coat, offering her a tissue for the tears and just generally being there. She looked entirely displeased at the fact, which was understandable considering the loud sobs.

Lestrade came out to great them from the back room.

"Wait 'till you see this" he gestured for them to follow down the hallway.

"What happened?" John asked, still looking back towards the woman, who, if anything, seemed to cry even louder.

"Got a call this morning. Apparently she" he nodded with his head to the mourner's direction. "Came here to visit the owner. Man named Matthew Cole. Got a bottle of champagne to put in the cooler and found" he flipped open the lid "this"

The rigor mortis of a frozen man was looking back at them.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You think that this is our killer" he mused.

"Wouldn't make sense would it? Except the bullet is the same calibre and the wound is exactly the same. Time frame would match too. Miss Wilson, er- the lady over there, who found him said that she hadn't heard from him in, oh, two weeks. That puts him right at the start of the murder spree. It's too much to be a coincidence"

"No, you're right. It's not" Sherlock agreed, leaning over the body.

Lestrade blinked for a moment, processing the agreement, then his chest swelled with pride. Getting an agreement from Sherlock was as rare as having the Queen Mum come up and pat you on the back. "Well then"

"But why would he _hide_ this one…" the detective mused, looking at the man's hands.

"Maybe he found that he could get away even without tossing them away somewhere. Maybe he started out playing it safe"

Sherlock scoffed at the notion, retreating the goodwill that had come with his previous statement. There was nothing safe about murdering a man on his doorstep. It was, perhaps, worse than killing in front of an unused station.

Killing someone in their own home said something about the killer. Research, special intent, a vague knowledge of the dead person and running into the risk of neighbours passing by or opening the door at an improper time, maybe even a porter. Killing someone on the street required just the man to be there and a late enough hour for people to stay away.

The problem was that, instead of theories being eliminated, they piled up. Once he finished analyzing the man for himself – drinker, smoker, fairly infrequent use of heroine and amphetamines ("Good God, man, look at his nose"), expensive tastes, had been a builder or a construction worker some time back – he headed right for the crying woman.

She would have been truly beautiful if little streams of makeup wouldn't have been smeared over her entire face. In fact, she was beautiful even with them, eyes wide, blue and glossy, plump lips, lovely features. One would wonder…exactly why did this beautiful woman spend her time alongside the man in the cooler?

Cheap make-up or at the very least, not the most expensive type, retail dress, coat and heels. Had gloves but no scarf and nails too long to be practical. Kept shifting her feet like she'd been on them all night and they hurt, especially in high heels.

"When was the last time you saw that man?" Sherlock launched into his enquiries.

"Hey, you can't just-" Donovan interfered, ready to cut off any and all questions that were not addressed by, what she called, "proper police".

"No, don't worry" the woman sniffled, crumbling the tissue with one hand and her pair of gloves with the other. "I'll answer any question anyone has. I just can't believe anyone would do that" fresh tears started to fall on her cheeks. Sherlock gave Sergeant Donovan a smug look and she stepped away, her face a picture of disapproval.

"Fine, knock yourselves out" she stepped away, towards Anderson, who had been waiting on the sidelines to collect the body, seeking someone that disproved of the detective as much as she did.

Sherlock turned to the woman. "Time, Miss Wilson"

"Er…about two weeks ago. A week and a half, maybe. I don't know" she dabbed the tissue to her eyes.

"What did he do for a living? Did he have any enemies?"

"He…he works in construction. At first. He started a business. It worked quite well for a while, but then he started having money trouble"

"Yes…he dabbled with drugs. Heroin, amphetamine, the ecstasy or LSD tablet now and then" he completed.

Her eyes widened in awe. "Yes! How did you know?"

Sherlock waved his hand. "Easily deduced. I assume he also visited strip parlours and prostitutes?"

She looked down, getting a slight twinge of blush. "I suspected…but not much. I mean, it was recreational. I understood that" she sniffed. "And I can't think of anyone actually wanting to harm him. He never owes anyone money. I know that. Matt isn't a …" she gave a long suffering sigh. "Wasn't a very nice person to others but he was always fair. He wouldn't even take a loan from the bank when his company started to go under. Said he'd rather just start everything from scratch"

"Of course. Just one more question, Miss Wilson. Why were you here?"

"I just came back from visiting my aunt in Brighton. She'd been sick. I usually come here when he's not in, clean a bit, make dinner. Brought champagne. He's usually away in the mornings, you see. Always has breakfast out. I opened the door, and went right to the cooler to put the champagne in so that …it would be ready" she sniffled again and covered her face with the tissue. "Is that all? I can't…I don't want to stay in this place anymore"

"If the police have taken your number, you are free to leave" he said, disinterested and went around her, into the living room.

He took in the lamp, obviously had been lit and left to run for some time. Dust, had gathered on the remote control, sound system and television. There was less of it on the bar, but he dragged a finger over it to inspect it nonetheless. Then stared at a bowl with traces of rust in it. There was only change there, now, and not enough to fill the bowl. Not enough to cause those rust marks.

Definitely less.

"Hey, what was that?" Lestrade asked loudly, discovering the woman gone. "I didn't say she could go"

"Forget it, Lestrade. She's not important" he muttered, sparing a glance out the window in time to see 'Miss Wilson' enter a black cab that had been waiting since they arrived. Curious.

"Well, I knew that…but you can't just start dismissing witnesses on my crime scenes" he wanted to yell. Instead he sort of mutedly whispered, not wanting to be heard. It was enough that every officer in the room disapproved of the man.

"She wasn't important" Sherlock calmly restated, looking at the curtains. Had been probably moved by careless police officers. Probably even Anderson. Morons.

Lestrade sighed, moments away from both throttling the consulting detective and a coronary.

The worst part was that as soon as Sherlock would be gone, he had to face both Donovan and Anderson, who for better or worse, were his colleagues. Somewhat friends. He saw them almost every day. He solved cases with them. He drank his coffee with them. Calling the man they both hated was seen as a breach of trust, a sign that they were ignored, that they had no idea of how to solve anything and that they weren't important to the force. He didn't want that, but Sherlock solved cases and he did it fast. When dealing with serial killers, fast was the best way to deal with them.

Still, if anything went wrong, the detective would escape all responsibilities and leave him dealing with both an irate team _and_ a superintendent breathing at his back.

He refused to think on it for too long, however, since it would only add to the stress.

Even if he had decided to stay, he probably would have missed the suspicious glint in Sherlock's eyes as he turned to the window, again.

* * *

"Did you do everything exactly as I told you?"

"Yes, everything"

"Gloves, present tense verbs, annoying crying?"

"Of course" 'Miss Wilson' said wiping away her running make-up.

"Good job, Dorcas" Milo extended two rolled-up wads of cash. The woman looked at them and only took one.

"He was my friend, too" she whispered.

Milo looked at her from the corner of her eye.

Friend…she said. Maybe. Maybe not. Anyone who refused that amount of cash on principle was alright by her, though someone to watch out for, but saying that Eddie had _friends_ was something she wasn't accustomed to. None of them actually had _friends_. You just had people you disliked less, who would work with you despite the fact that some plans sounded insane. Someone who would actually hesitate before stabbing you in the back. Someone you shared a beer with, at the end of the day. Friends implied confidentiality.

It rarely boded well with the paranoia their life induced.

"I know" Milo said, but she didn't mean it. She rarely said anything she meant, anymore.

"Snake" Dorcas started, using the colloquial, yet almost formal name. "I'll ask something. And I want the truth. I promise I won't go to the police but did you…" she let the sentence hang, eyeing the cabbie, who for all intents and purposes, was oblivious to them, driving who knew where.

"Did I kill him?" she asked with a smirk. "Did I use you for an alibi?" her smirk extended to a disturbing grin. "Will I kill you just for suspecting it?"

Dorcas shuddered, looking right into the girl's grey-green eyes, coloured like fresh mould and nearly as disturbing.

There were enough urban legends around, just terrifying enough to inspire both fear and awe. There was a tendency to romanticize the underworld: thieves and grifters, fencers and fixers, criminals who didn't really hurt others. A life without law sounded nice in words, if you were safe while doing so.

Dorcas knew better. She was a stripper, a 'lady of ill repute' and she saw those types daily. Most of them were cruel, disrespectful, obscene little men, who hadn't done much with their life. She could deal with that. But sometimes, you got the occasional one whose eye had a certain veil over them. You couldn't read them well and were so cold, you could get frostbite from staring into them. And sometimes the edges glinted with madness.

She recognized that glint very well and it was enough for her to lower her eyes and start breathing faster.

"No" Milo finally answered, opening her laptop and connecting a USB stick to it. "If I did, there wouldn't have been a body"

"That's not comforting"

"It wasn't supposed to be. Now, what was the detective in charge called?"

"Lestrade. The other was Sergeant Sally Donovan…" she paused for a second.

"But?" Milo asked, eyes still on the screen.

"What?"

"I sense a 'but' coming"

"But there was also a detective there. Sherlock Holmes, I think I heard his name was. Everyone there seemed to dislike the fact that he was present, though he didn't seem that bad to me. A bit pushy, perhaps, but nothing else" she stopped and pondered. "He was a lot more…confident than the rest. Like…he knew something was wrong"

"…Holmes" Milo pondered. "Did you give yourself away?"

"No, everything was fine. No one said anything or asked anything out of the ordinary. It was just…like he could see something I didn't" she shrugged. "I don't know, maybe it was nothing. How did you know that Eddie had died about two weeks ago, anyway?"

Milo rolled her shoulders and tapped some keys, various lists appearing and closing before Dorcas could read them. "Dust around, bottles of booze, expiration dates on food, the dates of the last purchased newspaper, the fact that he hadn't recorded any of his shows for that long. It wasn't all that hard. They could have figured that out by themselves"

"What, with an autopsy and such?"

"No" she paused. "Well, yes. Eventually. You have to set it to defrost in a refrigerator unit, which can take up to a week. Go any faster and the inner organs stay frozen while the body decomposes" she shook her head. "And that is not pretty. Also, you can't estimate time of death, presence of drugs or poison. It's fairly efficient, though I doubt the killer wanted it that way. But it wasn't hard to determine the time of his death just by looking around his place" the cab slowed down and parked by a sidewalk. "This is your stop"

Dorcas looked around and felt a slight shiver. "How did you know where I live?" she asked. Milo raised an eyebrow, then extended the other cash wad.

"Take it. I said I'd pay you for the job and I am"

It was intentional, the woman realised.

It was the subtle threat of knowledge few others had, the ending of a business deal. What she did when one of her customers became too much of a bother or when their wives realized what their husbands did and with whom. She didn't want to, but she took the other bundle as well and got out of the cab.

"Call me if the police contact you again" Milo said and the black cab took off.

This was why Dorcas dealt solely in the flesh business. She straddled the fine line of illegal and legal but she never jumped it. And people like Milo were some of the reasons for that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Place Your Bets**

* * *

"_Keeping gambling fair and safe for all" _~ UK Gambling Commission Motto

* * *

Green Fields Retirement Home was a concrete and glass building settled south of the Thames.

It lived up to its brochure as a clean, calm and pleasant place. The grounds were kept particularly neat and had enough trees about to make it look amiable but nothing to make it look like anything else than it was: an early grave for those rich enough to pay the admission fees.

It was vaguely reminiscent of a grave, as well. Draped in white instead of black, practical cotton instead of coffin silk and people busting about with life instead of grieving in death, but _somehow _still the same. Through hallways, death came in wafts mixed with detergent and fabric softener from various rooms, marking yet another notch on its worn bedpost.

Unlike the hallways, the lounge was sterile white and smelled faintly of pills, soap and mothballs. A large number of cards and flowers were taking part of the floor, tables and chairs in the memory of the late Elizabeth Lewis.

There was a security guard, but he seemed to be napping away his duty, never really having to exert any sort of physical effort and looking incapable of it.

Sherlock was at the reception desk, a fake smile pasted on his face as the duty manager was obviously, yet pleasantly trying to keep the facility out of trouble with the police. John blamed it on the detective's casual use of Lestrade's nicked badge.

Still, bad publicity and all, they all wanted an answer.

Elizabeth Lewis, aged thirty-eight, had been the killer's second victim. A girl in mind, if not in body, she had been jovial, carefree and gentle, good in a profession in which public relations were half the work because she could dumbly smile at even the most aggressive temper. Most of her job was mechanical and almost certainly like that of a maid.

She cleaned rooms, she chatted with old people and she brought them medicine, which was always a routine task. It was always loosening an exact count of pills with a practiced shake, thumbing the bottles shut in one hand and carrying them pinned under two fingers while palming a glass of water. Then she took them in the garden, if it was a pleasant day or played bridge in the common room. Though she was a bit of an expert after all the practice, she used to let the old people win, if only two out of three games so that they wouldn't get suspicious.

Her death had come as a shocked surprise. Not because it was death but because it was hers, someone who rarely attracted attention of those who regularly saw her, much less a murderer's.

Weren't 'murderees' always interesting people in crime novels?

But it wasn't really a novel, and for people who had worked with Elizabeth – Beth, a name as uninspired as she had been – life marched on. If the police wanted questions asked, they'd strive to answer if only to touch the lives of those who regularly contacted interesting events. They hadn't even cleaned out the locker, though a medical temp agency had already sent replacements.

"We have a few applications per week" the duty manager stated when inquired about the asylum. "A few can't pay for an apartment or room so we usually manage something with the family, although not always. It is a fairly expensive place to be in" she explained, not even slightly apologetic. In truth, the fees were quite large. Some would say irrational. But no one ever said London was cheap, so they clung to that.

"Did Ms. Lewis ever take any applications or talked to future residents?" Sherlock asked, looking for all the eyes around as leaning casually. His fingers were in perpetual motion inside his pocket, restless to take all the knowledge inside the place without having to ask questions. The world didn't work like that but he could dream.

"Sometimes. If there are a lot of visitors and applicants around, some caretakers will take over to give a tour or sign visitors in" she rapidly rectified, as if it was illegal. "Not that it happens often, just that we prefer working efficiently to remove all sorts of unnecessary stress to our tenants"

Sherlock heard that as 'unnecessary excitement'. To him, a place like this was truly a grave. A grave for the mind, not just the body. A place where there was nothing to do and nothing to think about. He even despised being there.

"Do you recognize this man?" Sherlock nodded to John who produced a copy of the photograph the late Henry Gilbert had had in his wallet: him and a small child, presumed daughter. One that Lestrade was supposed to call and inform of the events. He hadn't cared about her. She was probably as useless as everyone else in the case. Outside the corpses, of course.

"Oh, yes. I think so…when you work with so many people every day, faces start to blur. But I'm sure I've seen him, because you don't often see a man with a fedora and pocket handkerchief these days. I think he might have been here to look for an admission about…two months back. Maybe more. Let me check" she opened a database on the computer and started tapping the keys. When nothing came up, she turned around, looking through files calendaristically dated.

John turned to Sherlock. "What do you think we'll find?"

The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out the green brochure, extending it to his flatmate, who stared at it for the first time.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, looking at the letters.

"Henry Gilbert's apartment" Sherlock answered as if it had been obvious. It wasn't and John hadn't seen it before in his life. So he felt the need to clarify.

"You took it from his flat"

"Obviously"

The matter of removing evidence, entering a place without police backup and interrogating them _on _police matters despite them being glaringly outside of the force, seemed completely irrelevant to the man, whom John thought was just a tad mental.

Of course, the eyeballs in the microwave and challenging serial killers on talk alone were also a clue.

"Maybe he was just looking for a place to stay and retire" John shrugged, both hoping it to be so and …not really. _They_ didn't have a clue about the murder and after the last adventure, he included himself in the 'they'. He wanted a break from the events to sleep, which was nearly impossible with Sherlock as he was. And good people were being killed left and right.

"Look at this place, John" the detective raised his head lazily and vaguely gestured about him. "It's modern, new. Cement and glass" he tapped the reception table. "Metal. His home was antiques, wood furniture, old and expensive knick-knacks, rare books. He wouldn't have wanted to stay here. Even if he had come in for a visit, he wouldn't have accepted living here. Instead, he kept the brochure and wrote these initials on it. Why? Obviously he was interested in something or someone here. It's no coincidence that someone with E.L. in their name got murdered and then the man himself"

"Alright, so the man came to check out a room, didn't like it, met a caretaker and stayed in touch" John summarised. "What did they do enough to warrant being shot?"

"I don't know. Yet" he turned to give the fake smile to the plump woman who came back with papers in hand.

"There's no Henry Gilbert signed in" the manager intervened, showing the catalogue as if proof she wasn't lying. "Not on the computer as a future tenant nor as a visitor. I'm sorry"

"Do you remember anything else about the day you've seen this man here?"

"Well…It was a busy day. I think…yeah, Beth, Elizabeth" she bowed her head if only because it was the proper thing to do in her mind. "She took him on a tour. Just to see some of the residents. How everything was going on. I don't think she took long, if only because I was still talking to the visitors when she came back"

"Do you have anyone here with the name that starts with L.A. ?" Sherlock asked.

"Several people in our rooms, but no employees. Any specific gender or age …?" she left the sentence hanging, hands ready to type out the letters.

"No. No, thank you. That would be it" he said and already turned and walked away

"Detective!" she called and ran after them. "Detective…we all want to know what happened to Beth. So…all of us here are willing to answer any sort of question you have"

Sherlock gave another fake smile and thanked her again before leaving abruptly.

"So" John started, pocketing his hands and walking towards the street. "You think L.A. is a person?"

"Why? What do you think it is?"

"Well…a city for one" he muttered in a low voice. "So, how exactly will we know for sure? I mean, how many people in London have a name that starts with L.A.?"

"We can't know for sure. Not yet" Sherlock muttered to himself and hailed a cab.

* * *

Information is one of the most important and expensive commodity of the modern world.

Being an information broker was a very lucrative and busy profession. Sadly, also slightly illegal depending on the type of questions asked.

It forced them to work in various unsavoury locations that normal people or at least law-abiding people would not find themselves in. One as such was a little bar down in Soho, hidden away in an alley, nameless as most of its drinkers would have liked to be. Criminals, thugs and assorted lowlifes frequented it and later on, there would probably be a fight over something or another. The air smelled of smoke, stale beer and body odour and there were always some tough-looking guys playing pool in the back.

Drinks were cheap and glasses weren't very clean.

The only reason the place wasn't robbed every other day was because everyone who did the robbing drank there on their downtime.

It wasn't very good business. Some of the tabs were so large, they required their own little notebook, but it wasn't terrible and the owner and only employee generally had nothing to fear from anyone.

It wasn't the sort of place Milo often went to. That's not to say she never went to them at all or that she disliked the company, just that she preferred her drinks with a little less spit in them and was willing to pay extra to insure that. Still, women rarely frequented the place, much less women who were not being paid by the hour, so the rather rough regulars were surprised to see one there, even one dressed like a man and a coat that looked like a good lunch ticket.

It just showed they didn't know better.

She was there for a purpose and that was to see Lewis Appleby. Of course, you couldn't call him that. Appleby, in his words, was the name of a farmer or food merchant or a _baker_, not a rather infamous information broker in the big city. Calling him that meant being sure that you would be chased by everyone from the mob to the cops in less than a day.

Oddly enough, he had nothing against being called 'Apple'.

She ordered a beer just to fit in and got it with a leer and full body appraisal. It smelled off, even while comparing it to the smell of the place. Then she approached the pool table with a casual stroll about her that made others think she didn't know where she was.

Then one of the men shouted cheerfully. "Snake!" and went to greet her with wide arms and an easy grin. To their surprise, she grinned back.

"Louie!" she stepped into his arms and pushed him back when his hands wandered south. "Louie." she warned.

"Damn, Snake. You're as fit as ever" he grinned and gestured for the bar, plucking the bottle out of her hand. "What'll you have? Beer tastes like piss. Probably cause it's got some in it. Donnie, whatever the lady will have, put it on my tab"

The leering bartender nodded, swirling a rag about, spreading the grime evenly, beady eyes trying to figure out what was going on.

"Scotch of the elders, mon vieux, scotch of the elders" she grinned.

"Ah, the drink of champions. I'll have the same" he signalled to Donnie and turned to her. "So, I heard you were across the pond, twirling yanks around your finger"

"I was. Well, mostly. Spent about half a year there and moved around a bit in the meanwhile" she pulled out a cigarette and Louie extended a lighter. "Thanks. Sort of went around some of the major cities. Hit Vegas, of course. Then I got bored. Couple of days ago I was in New York, matter of fact. Then I figured I needed a change in scenery and a little less accent"

"Ah, well we've got scenery to spare around here. Got anything in mind?" he then lit his own cigarette and leaned back.

"Yes, actually" she inhaled and grabbed the glass of scotch. Surprisingly, it was see-through. She took a sip trying not to think of what that glass had been through. "I need some information on recent activity around here"

"Ah, my favourite topic"

"Only because you charge by the syllable"

"Man's gotta make a living" he knocked his glass back and slammed it on the counter, indicating for another "Who do you want grassed up?"

"Gills" she sipped hers fairly daintily, trying not to put her lips too close to the glass.

"Ol' Gills?" Louie frowned. "Couldn't you just ask him?"

Like any good information broker, Louie was well aware of the careful positioning on the criminal chess board. He knew his king, he knew his queen and knew that you messed with neither.

There was a funny story in which some smug little French guy had asked about Henry Gilbert, colloquially known as Gills, without poking around discreetly first. He'd simply ploughed through the typical protocols and various people who owed Ol' Gills a favour and were not right in the head, set him on fire.

Well…when people say 'funny'…

Problem was, no one disliked the old boy. He was like that TV show grandfather, all white haired and a spot of wisdom on his tongue. You asked for him, you had to deal with both unwanted and self-appointed bodyguards.

"I would if I could, trust me. Make you a deal. I'll tell you something you don't know and you tell me something _I_ don't know"

"Now you're speaking my language. Chat me up, love"

"You first" she quaffed the rest of it. Good booze, just better not to think about the package.

"Don't trust me?" he signalled for a refill despite her grimacing face.

"No" she grinned.

"Clever girl. Alright, any specifics?"

"Just whatever he did, starting with, say, September last year"

"That's a lot. Alright…had a deal with some Eastern Europeans. Hell if I knew who they were. Mona Lisa scam…poorly executed. Henry got the thieves out but at a pretty significant loss. Couple thou. Started filtering his clientèle even more. Christmas comes and no one could get a mile near him without going through at least five other smaller fences"

Milo frowned. "Didn't know that"

"Yah, well" he smashed the butt of the cigarette straight on the bar and lit another. "You always dealt with him directly. Less privileged sods had to go through the steps. So he stopped meeting them at home, got bigger and more secure gigs and eventually barely got to one a month. Still probably cleared out more than the bloody Prime Minister, but put some serious individuals on the edge. Anyway, in January, he comes to me, asks me to connect this bird to a …specific seller" he mimicked dragging a cigarette to his lips with his cigarette-free hand.

"Pot?" she asked, quaffing down the second glass.

"You said it, not me" he drank his second as well.

"What kind of bird?"

"Not the fit kind. Looked like a bloody librarian, if you ask me. But fine, I got paid for it. So I put her in the deal with Jay, God knows why. Then he goes even further underground. Russians came in, like three weeks ago, had a fit over not being able to fence down a Matisse. Had to go around looking for replacements"

"But…a Matisse if a huge payday" she frowned.

"I know. And that's the last I heard his name pop up in conversation. Some blokes were asking about him like a week back, but no one knew anything so it just died down. Now, what's your info?"

"In a second. What about Eddie?"

Louie frowned and twirled the empty glass around his finger. "What about him?"

"Did he have anything to do with Gills lately? Or the Easterns or pretty much anything?"

"Neah…Eddie worked as usual. I mean, yeah, haven't heard from him for a while back. We were supposed to go for drinks and some ladies, if you know what I mean, but it's not like it's unusual. He does shit like that all the time. Last time he did it, in fact, he was out of town on some business up in Dublin and came back loaded with Peruvian coke" he frowned. "He still owed me that story"

She lit another cigarette and signalled for another drink, liquored up enough not to care about cleanliness anymore. She quaffed it immediately. "You won't get it that soon. Eddie's dead"

Louie's glass shattered on the floor. "What?"

"Eddie. Shot in the gut, stuffed in the cooler of his own house. Roughly two weeks ago"

"How do you know?" Louie asked in a grim, low voice.

"I found'im. Right before popping over by Henry's and getting chased out by cops" she inhaled and pushed her hair back.

"Cops at Henry's? Was he there?"

"I'll be fucked if I know what happened, but no. He was waiting for me, left a note saying he was meeting Eddie. That was last night. When Eddie was already rotting his ass off in a freezer"

"What did you do about Ed, then?" he lowered his voice. The patrons were already eyeing them and didn't need more gossip to add. He shuffled the glass with his foot, shoving it under his seat and signalled a new one from the glaring barkeep.

"I called the cops" she inhaled and got another glass.

His eyes widened. "_You_?"

"Well, not me, obviously. Got Dorcas to act like the grieving girlfriend, back in town. Told her what to say and what to do. They probably won't even ring her up again, but she'll tell me if they do"

"Right, good. I didn't even know why I was worried. It's you we're talking about" Louie shook his head and started sipping his glass. "So you came here to learn what's what. I'm sorry, mate. I didn't even know"

"My question is who'd wanna off Gills? And go through Ed for it?" she put out her cigarette.

"I'll put some feelers up, yeah? Wrap this up real nice. Maybe we won't even have riots"

"Great" she got up. "Tell me how it goes"

"So what will you do?"

She resisted the urge to wipe the bottom of her trousers as if she would have sat in a pile of dirt and tapped her fingers on the bar, downing her last glass. "I'm going to get the son of a bitch who ghosted Gills and eat his still beating heart" she smiled congenially and walked out.

Louie had the common sense to shiver.

* * *

He had been looking at the mirror for over a week now.

Not all the time, of course. Just for ten minutes an hour. The rest of the time was spent preparing.

He had looked at his reflection for so long; he no longer knew who looked back. Paradoxically, it became something other than him, a stranger whose every pore was intimately familiar.

Every morning he thought he had someplace to be. He was ready to shave and jump into the shower before his situation came upon him again. So he usually dropped the razor into the sink and stared.

Stared until he felt his purpose renewed.

Then he just stared because he couldn't believe he was the same person he had been years ago.

* * *

A/N:

John is hard to write.

He is really far removed from Sherlock's crime scenes and even more so from what Milo would perceive as normal or socially acceptable. On the other hand he is a pretty badass military man who just goes along with the complete insanity that his new lifestyle presents, which is not something anyone would do. It's hard to balance those two roles to show both his slightly awed reactions to the, honestly, odd or dangerous events and still make him cope with everything as it goes along.

Also, Milo and Sherlock are both characters that tend to steal the picture – even in writing – so that is also a challenge. Both in the same place might just end up having a Large Ham or a Sherlock Scan battle. And then everyone loses.

And yes, the next chapter is when the three (plus one) finally meet. If I can be satisfied with it in time to post it. So this really is the last time you can place your bets on who's what and how they'll react.

On another note, thank you so much to those who followed, favourited and reviewed. I love feedback in any way possible, since I don't know if I'm messing anything up or not. I'm the only one who reads these and even if I think I'm doing well I might just be deluding myself. So thanks. It means a lot.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Stakes**

* * *

"_If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?" _~ Vince Lombardi

* * *

The minute hand was doing its rounds carefully across the clock face, in spite of the worries and cares its owner might have had. It was a very special watch.

It was slick, black and shiny. And it had secrets.

Hidden deep within its recesses was a 128 GB memory chip filled to the brim with programs and carefully obscured data. Between its lovingly crafted hour markers was an audio and video recording lens. To top it off, it was impervious to water and scratches.

The only thing that watch wouldn't do was tell time. Not because it couldn't, mind – it was a very expensive watch that had worked to perfection and would probably outlast its owner – but because it was never set properly. It had been, at the start, but somewhere between Buenos Aires and Kiritimati, it had been abandoned to its wily ways of keeping time.

As such, the time was three forty-five. The location was the dead end of a street in Plaistow, flanked on one side by garages and on the other by buildings. It was night time. A glass moon was filtering the darkness in blue, transparent hues. The few people out there passed along with runny noses and red ears, walking fast, like mechanical dolls. The clouds oozed a lazy, half-hearted sort of drizzle, which made it all the more depressing. Not even the rain seemed to be trying.

Hidden between a wall and a sedan, Milo waited, covered in shadows. A slight piece of paper, cheap and obviously written by a man, was burning a hole through her jacket.

_I know why you're here, _it said._ I can give you some information on what Ed and Gills were in. For a price. Meet me, alone, at this address at eleven thirty. Don't be late._

Even if the author of such a strange letter knew who she was, he definitely didn't show it. She'd been woken up somewhere at noon by a loud knock, after a twelve hour sleep, only to find a hand-delivered note, perfectly framed, outside the door. For one, no one actually let on about knowing where another illegally inclined fellow slept. It was common courtesy. Simply mentioning it was regarded as a threat or blackmail and demanded _some _sort of retribution or threat in return.

Secondly, the message couldn't have been clearer unless it said in red, dripping letters: "I wish to murder you tonight. Bring refreshments"

As far as traps went, it was an obvious one.

In fact, if it wasn't a trap, it was even more suspicious.

However, the thought of not showing up never even crossed her mind. She kept glancing at her badly set watch, unconsciously noting the incorrect time but never acknowledging it, feeling the stack of cash hidden between the layers of fabric. She was dressed in black, as she almost always was, baggy clothes and beanie covering the basic shapes of her body and her hair, allowing her to meld with shadows and observe her surroundings.

Everything was so calm, it seemed almost ominous. She was early, she knew, but when meeting an unknown factor in a strange area without much means in cover, inspecting the location was important.

Her patience was rewarded earlier than expected, as two men as different as they could be appeared in her line of view: one shorter, fair and very nervous , who stayed back, the other taller, pale and with eyes as blue as a twenty pound note. Both were keeping their hands inside their pockets.

The British…what would they do without pockets?

Her mind barely caught on to the hypocrisy as she removed hers from her own pockets, only to forget about it the next second and slip them back inside. Then she stepped out into the meager view the few lights provided.

* * *

While John was tense and quite frankly, waiting for another bullet, Sherlock was tense for another reason. Things were both falling apart and coming together, he was getting a large dose of excitement and a new piece of the puzzle had shown its (his) hand.

The place was unimportant, the note less so but the author had been an intelligent man. The tests had revealed neither fingerprints nor traces of saliva. If he were to guess, he'd say the author was male, trained in calligraphy and had fine taste.

The letter, found by Mrs. Hudson in the morning, had been carefully worded and politely phrased.

_Dear Mister Holmes, _

_You do not know me, but I have some important information for you. I understand that you are currently investigating a case offered to you by the Metropolitan Police. Quite probably, your joint enterprise is a noble one and I wish you every success. However, I feel I must impart to you some knowledge that has been left out. I feel that I have uncovered evidence about the nature of the victims that would shake the case to its foundations._

_It is of utmost importance to the safety of all of London's citizens that I share this with you. I do not trust the integrity of casual correspondence so I feel that the best way to do so is to meet face to face. I have enclosed the address I considered best on the back and will wait for you there at exactly eleven pm._

_Please forgive the anonymity of this letter but we live in a dangerous world, I am sure you can agree, and we must do what we can to protect ourselves._

_Yours,_

_A friend._

Its very paper oozed politeness. John would have said that it _felt _wrong but Sherlock Holmes didn't make his assumptions on feelings. He thought that if the author of the note was the murderer, he was quite definitely too confident and that was dangerous enough. If he was not, and that was statistically improbable, then he knew too much and obviously had a real connection to the case.

That alone prevented him from even thinking about not showing up. Not when someone had gone to the trouble of contacting him directly. Not when offering something so intriguing as both information and his presence. There was much to be said about an informant wishing to meet in person and he relished the opportunity and mystery.

Getting to their destination, however, was a disappointment. He had known the location by name, yet it had been fairly unremarkable in his mind, which was precisely the proper word to describe it. Buildings whose residents learned not to wander away from, cars here and there, not enough to warrant the space, not bare to render it useless, just far away from tracks to be inconvenient to walk to, yet close enough to be deafened by the sound.

The person waiting for them, was also a disappointment: female by posture and height, but male in nearly everything else, barely noticeable and hidden enough. Female…there was always something. The writing had been so…

She moved casually closer, almost sauntered, but only with the tips of her feet, enclosed in shoes with soles as thin as cardboard.

"Here I am" he said, confident enough that John, who had preferred to stay slightly behind, held his hand on his handgun.

"Not exactly what I expected" she said as greeting, in a voice that suggested an inclination towards cigarettes and speaking from the abdomen.

"You were expecting something?" he raised an eyebrow slightly and cocked his head. She wore a large hood that covered her eyes. The shadows did the rest and all that was visible was a glimpse of pale chin that looked nearly translucent in the light. Hard to spot an expression, but Sherlock was fairly certain she was vaguely amused.

But something was wrong, outside of the perceived gender. He tensed. So did she. The shadows from around the buildings moved.

A gun discharged twice.

The girl fell onto her back from the force of the shot with a grunt. She shuffled for a moment like a turtle that had been tipped on its back then stopped moving altogether. Sherlock had made himself a smaller target and took cover behind a car.

John was aiming.

His hand steady, he spotted the retreating figure, but cars and darkness didn't allow him to line a shot. He lowered his hand regretfully and turned to see if his flatmate was alright.

Of course he was. He had broken into a sprint.

"Follow him, John!" he had time to shout over his shoulder, still running.

The confirmation on the man's mental health, or lack thereof, dawned on him, and then he questioned his own as he followed, not before glancing back at the corpse. They'd be back to call Lestrade.

The streets were long and opened themselves to sudden turns. In the darkness, with the shadows of telephone poles and cars slicing into the orange glow of the streetlights, their pursuit was only visible here and there, as he slipped across from one amber patch of light to another.

They ran for the better part of four streets guided only by thundering sounds of feet upon pavement. By that point, John decided that being Sherlock's mate involved investing in running shoes. The rain made every spot of light surrounded by a shiny corona so seemingly solid, he almost expected them to shatter as they ran past.

The fairly stout man made a sudden turn, dodging between cars and for a moment, they truly lost him.

Sherlock looked around. Many parked aforementioned cars, houses, a florist and the sign that said East London Cemetery & Crematorium. The street lead on straight, to the cemetery and down a back alley. That would have appeared to be the smarter choice, if Sherlock hadn't known that it lead to a dead end.

The guard at the cemetery was not at his post. Scruff marks by the stone indicated climbing. He followed. So did John, with much more reluctance.

"I am not wearing the proper shoes for this" he muttered to himself as he hoisted himself over the tall iron fence, helped by the one surrounding the nearby house. They ran down the main alley and stopped when it bifurcated, looking around.

It was completely dark, save for the faint glimmers of light, in the distance. There were trees, large tombstones and further off, buildings. They'd lost him. Even if they had pursued him far from the path, they could barely distinguish the gravestones enough to avoid them, much less continue in their pursuit.

Their breaths could be seen and heard, and John leaned forward, supporting himself on his knees. He was convinced that he had a stitch in his side.

He was shushed by Sherlock and swallowed hard. No other breath could be heard. The only sounds were in the distance, belonging to the city.

And someone cleared their throat behind them.

They quickly turned and a bright light was shoved in their eyes. John was thankful that his instincts didn't include shooting when startled.

The girl, previously thought dead, walked towards them, slowly and without so much of a sound, holding a cell phone that acted as a flashlight. In the slightly fluorescent LED glow, she did seem ghost-like, both face and hair flour-white, seemingly melding into each other.

"It's useless to search now. You can play hide and seek for hours in here" she commented.

It seemed fairly stupid to point out that she wasn't dead. John settled for the next best thing.

"How did you get here?" he asked, looking around, still fairly out of breath. His hand was lightly hovering over the grip of the gun in his pocket.

She pointed with her right arm to the other side of the graveyard. Her left arm was held fairly limp and tiny droplets of crimson were falling off her fingers. "Jumped the fence on the other side"

If previously, Sherlock's eyes had tried to deduce her, they were positively dissecting her now.

"Why were you there in the first place?"

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I expect that it was the same reason you were there. I got a note" she removed the piece of paper and handed it over, where it was snatched with enthusiasm.

It was still in fairly good condition – well enough to experiment upon – but the probability of there being anything meaningful on it was in the lowest spectrum. He ripped it out and read it, then re-read it while being stared at by the two.

It wasn't even the same writing, but still male. At least, he thought to himself, he hadn't mistaken the gender of the writing on his own letter.

"It says eleven thirty. Why be there earlier?" he asked, looking not so much for the answer, but the phrasing.

Milo stared at the pair, wondering just how they were involved and why. If they had known Gills and Ed, they would have reacted. As such, the letter did no harm. What could she say? Quote the general bylines of a blind meeting? Say that she expected some sort of criminal information broker or worse, an assassin?

"It was an anonymous letter. Better early than late"

The answer was unsatisfactory and Sherlock began walking back.

"Are you alright?" John asked, looking at her shoulder.

"Fine" she poked around in the left inner pocket and removed a thin wad of cash. The bullet had pierced three twenty pound bills.

"How in the-" John started before being cut off by Sherlock immediately appearing beside them and taking the money from which he extracted the bullet. He looked at her appraisingly.

"Bullet proof jacket" he said, not asked, with a slight smirk. "And the other?"

He proceeded to push her jacket aside while John watched in embarrassed horror and apologized with his eyes.

The detective plucked the other bullet from her collarbone, where the skin had been breached. The rivulets of blood were starting to dry.

Each bullet was put in two different plastic bags and, satisfied, the man began to walk towards the exit.

"I'm sorry about him. John Watson. He's Sherlock Holmes" John said, looking at the small wound. "If you come by our flat, I can get you a bandage for that"

"Thank you. Milo" she said, keeping her voice neutral and putting the money in her pocket "Milo Rivers"

On their way out, the guard post was still empty.

The walk to a cab was done in silence as was the ride to Baker Street.

Sherlock was thinking. John was watching Milo and she…was doing both. Her fingers were numb and cold, lacking blood as they did when something oddly important or dangerous was going on.

There were certain moments in life that determine the future. Such a point felt close or perhaps, it passed already.

They didn't trust her – John didn't. He didn't seem the type to trust easily. A military man, she was sure, but with the hands of a healer. A doctor. One of those few _honest _men people so often used as example, like a rare species of bugs. The other, curious – too curious – impertinent and with priorities thought skewed by modern society. Detective, but not for the pay. That was a two thou coat he was sporting, with a Savile Row suit and calfskin leather shoes, which he used as running shoes if the soles were anything to go by. He was raised from money and was after a thrill, perhaps. Same as others that went slumming.

Not someone Gills or Eddie would associate with, probably irrelevant to the entire scene, but now, important simply because they'd been there. Called there.

The new question was why was she being targeted and more importantly, were the two a point in her disfavour or a shortcut to a victory? It mattered, but she didn't care. Her having lived that night was victory enough.

And she subtly smirked as she fixed her jacket. They say paranoia is a bad trait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Craps**

* * *

_A gambler plays even when the odds are immutable and against him - Lou Krieger_

* * *

The flat was by a dubious place called Speedy's, that advertised 'Breakfast, Lunch, Pasta'.

Peculiar.

One locked door, seventeen steps up and an unlocked door later, Milo entered what was considered to be either the quintessential bachelor pad or some sort of oddity museum.

There was a skull on the mantelpiece. A knife was holding the correspondence together, near said skull. A line of reference books were properly ordered in a bookcase, coupled with the odd non-fiction book on the floor. A mess of files, photographs of gruesome sites and reports took most of the coffee table, composing an unintentionally morbid tea setting. Newspapers – The Times, of course – had pencil markings by various titles, which drew her attention.

There was a violin case leaning in a corner.

She had enough time to carefully look at each item after she sat on the couch and had been asked to wait while John brought a medical case from a room upstairs from a 'Mrs Hudson'.

Nothing described a person more than their apartment. Even those with less interest in people and less intrusive observation skills than the ones she possessed could easily hint at a person's character. And the flat said that John Watson walked very lightly inside his own home.

The eccentricity in decorations and – not neglect but carelessness – in displaying what appeared to be murder scenes seemed like a signature for the man who had invaded her personal space without even being introduced.

He even seemed to thrive in the lack of hospitality and the look in his eyes was one quite familiar that –

Milo's mind went blank, when her eyes caught a certain photograph, buried underneath others: a photograph in which she could easily pinpoint Henry's sleeve.

She'd known that Henry was most likely dead. She'd created scenarios as to why someone would want him dead and she quite definitely would have been ready to say that he was dead to any and all who might have asked. But there was still that small glimmer of hope, the last shred of faith she might have had in a fair world, who wanted to think that the fatherly man had beaten the odds.

Whether Sherlock picked at her mood and clues or was simply guessing, she didn't know, but she barely stopped herself from glaring when he asked "Friend of yours?"

She delayed the answer by taking off the jacket, remaining in a loose, black ribbed cotton singlet and picked at her small bullet wound.

He continued, obviously not needing her input. "You smoke clove cigarettes, you have an interest with this case though not from a legal point of view and your shoes" he paused. "One and a half?"

It seemed truly par for the course with all the men in her life, that while Milo was having an internal break-down, _he_ wanted to talk about her shoe size. It was amusing though, so she collaborated.

"Two, in fact" she smirked, took out a dark brown cigarette and lit it in one move. "Shopping is a bitch"

"I'm sure it is" he replied nonplussed and extended a dirty mug for her to use as ashtray. It was a casual gesture, but his eyes latched onto the smoke like a shark to a careless swimmer's leg.

She smiled without any humour reaching her eyes. "And if I confirmed your theory, Mr. Holmes, that he was indeed a friend, what would you gain?"

He didn't answer, just looked at her as though he expected her to know. She tapped her cigarette with her finger to rid it of ash and somehow her eyes were drawn to the photographs again.

Three men and one woman. Henry, Eddie and two strange unknown...

"Librarian bird" she whispered to herself.

Sherlock observed her carefully, as if she might do some interesting trick, waiting for her to continue. She did not, so he asked. "Who was Henry Gilbert?"

"What sort of revelation are you expecting, Mr. Holmes?" she looked up at his face. "None I can give you, I'm sure. Henry had no friends. If you're looking for the closest socially acceptable word for what we were, _friends_ might be close to it" she shrugged lightly, favouring her right shoulder over her left. "Of course, 'enemies' is another…"

She felt a smirk tickle her lips as she read the frustration in his eyes. He had a very specific way of glaring…that she had seen before.

Both turned their heads towards the door at the same time.

"Waiting for someone?" she asked, smashing the cigarette butt in the mug.

"No" Sherlock leaned back and steepled his hands together, close to the mouth, looking towards the door. He already knew who it was, just by the soft sounds of feet.

Milo noted the pose with amusement. She recognized that, too. It was a good position to stop others from reading their body language but it said something, nonetheless, to those who knew where to look and the context they were usually in. "I'm on top of it" it usually said. The level of confidence one had could easily be seen just by the level of the hands. Of course, it also looked as if he saw others as subordinates.

In fact, the only other person she'd ever saw doing that gesture and melding to it so perfectly was…

The door opened.

"Look who I found at the door" John said with a voice that seemed both jest and irritation.

"Mycroft" she greeted, as the perpetually elegant man walked into the room in a dark three piece Saville Row suit, one hand on his old-fashioned dark umbrella and the other in his pocket.

"Emilia" he said with a thin smile she'd come to describe as cordial disgust.

"Wait, you two know each other?" John asked, medical worries and suspicion replaced with surprised awe.

"I've had the unfortunate and unpleasant experience, yes" she replied, lighting another cigarette, smile demure and conflicting with the sharp tone of her voice.

"The feeling is entirely mutual, my dear" he sat down by the armchair next to Sherlock, whose hands lowered to his chest. "After all, I was the one with the unpleasant experience. Have you told them exactly what you do?" he challenged.

She turned to the sitting man, with a half-arsed smirk. "I'm a grifter, a thief, hacker…common criminal"

Sherlock's face remained impassive, glancing between her and Mycroft. John had opted for an observing position, beside him, caught within a mix of glaring and blatant curiosity.

"Hardly common, I would say" Mycroft interceded. "Last time I heard, you were in Dubai. Incidentally, that was during the time that jewellery theft occurred. About, oh, three million dollars worth"

The smirk bloomed into a full machiavellic grin and though she was much too tired to be snarky, she used a mischievous tone to piss him off. "I can't fully disclose the whereabouts of my presence at any given time. Besides, admitting it would be cheating" she inhaled deeply, much more confident on familiar grounds than when talking to Sherlock.

"So, it usually takes what, a week or two for you to find out I'm in town. Did you get better intel or was it just luck?"

Then her eyes snapped to Sherlock and realisation hit her. "Cousin? No, brother. Little brother, if I'm not mistaken" she shook her head. "Did you think that…" then she started laughing.

It wasn't the happy type of laughter, nor one generally brought on by glee. It was half-mad, half-incredulous and she collapsed on the sofa behind her, shaking her head and finishing with a high pitched giggle that would have been more fitting in an asylum. "You thought I was going after you _through him_?" she giggled again. "Oh my, you did"

Mycroft remained silent, even as his little brother's eyes were glaring at him.

She snorted softly. "You'll be happy to know that if I ever plan to do anything against you, it will be solely against you. I won't go around looking for relatives I haven't even heard about"

"How generous of you" he said in his usual dry tone.

"I'm all heart, I know. Besides, you're not that big of a challenge" she smirked. He brought his fingers to the ridge of his nose, weary of encouraging the discussion.

"Why are you here, Emilia?" His tone was exasperated enough to add a chipper tone to her voice as she grinned.

"Ask your brother"

Mycroft's gaze turned subtly towards Sherlock, who remained silent, then his eyes skimmed the papers and photographs on the table.

"My condolences" he said adopting a sombre expression.

Her face twisted in a glare. "Bullshit. You ask why I'm here?" she tossed the pictures at him. "I would have gone to the moon for this. You think I wanted to come back to London?"

Devoid of humor and sick of conversation, she collected her jacket, cigarettes and lighter, medical care be damned, and took the photograph of the only murdered woman.

"May I?" she asked, looking at Sherlock, whose hands were at mouth level again and he nodded.

"Thank you" she pocketed it and removed a small black card with thin silvery writing on it. "This is my number. You are pursuing the case, are you not, _detective_? Then expect my call. I should have something for you by morning"

She moved towards the door and looked at Mycroft. "And you owe me lunch ever since, oh…September 2009?"

Mycroft smirked subtly. "Emilia, don't slam the door"

A loud thud that nearly shook the walls followed and then a slightly quieter one when she reached downstairs. Mycroft grasped the ridge of his nose again before looking at his brother and his brother's flat mate, one with an accusing look and the other with an inquisitive one.

He very nearly groaned.

* * *

Perhaps some background might have been appropriate at one point, but few who ever encountered Emilia 'Milo' Rivers, ever had the pleasure of one.

Colloquially, she was known as Snake Eyes.

She didn't really know where the criminal name had come from. People had come up with different theories from the actual colour of her eyes to the fact that most of her cons involved lying low, playing nice, then jumping out like a snake from the high grass. Referencing gambling terms opened entirely new possibilities and so, it was hardly ever questioned, much less explained.

Said name had become equivalent to a wicked combination of James Bond and Dr. No, complete with a white Persian cat; a perfect gentleman with a knife hidden at the lapel, shagging young nubile ladies left and right. She did little to discourage it, even when it inconvenienced her.

In the Interpol files she was just a number – A-207 - without any other sort of personal information or additional data that was more than simple assumption. She defined the term 'ghost'. She had to.

Saying her name out loud could get you shot in Hong Kong, Moscow and Chicago.

She was a good con-artist. She was a good thief.

She was not a good person.

And when she slammed the door to that little bar in Soho where all the random lawless riffraff gathered, Lewis was just about to find that out.

She casually grabbed a pool cue off the table and slammed it against the back of his knees before he even knew she was there.

To those who imagined girls as weak and useless in a fight, it was worth mentioning that there is no better training than fighting for your life and that holding on to the edge of a skyscraper with only your fingertips or climbing a few floors on rope would do wonders for the arm muscles.

He collapsed on his knees, neck against the edge of the table, the back of which was promptly hit again.

"Leave" she hissed to the onlookers who had stupidly decided to stare.

There were plenty of brawls that started in that pub. Too many to mention. But very few were unprovoked and almost never initiated by the sober. A moment of contemplation made the drunk men think she looked perhaps, too sober. And there was just that glint of madness in her eyes that said she was quite willing to put the sharper end of the pool cue through a part of their anatomy that they would dearly miss, if they didn't disappear.

Sometimes even drunks had a frighteningly straight view of reality.

They scrambled out of the pub through the front door.

Milo aimed a kick at Lewis' lower back, letting him fall to the floor, finally allowing him to breathe before she slammed the cue into his solar plexus. He started sputtering and tried to curl into a fetal position.

"What the hell, Snake?" he muttered between wheezed gasps, trying and failing to move the offending piece of lacquered wood.

"_Tell_ me it's a coincidence that only _hours _after I talk to you, there's a man sending me notes and trying to _kill_ me" she whimsically raised her voice at certain words, appearing even more insane than she did when she entered the pub. "_Tell _me that, so I don't have to start _hurting _you" she punctuated the last sentence with another jab that made the man groan.

His eyes were wide, full of recognition and regret. She knelt by him, staring him down.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I didn't know" he replied in a soft tone.

"_What_ did you _**do**_?"

"There was a guy that kept asking for Gills. But, Snake, I swear I didn't know what he wanted to do. I told him the only one who could get him a meeting with Gills was Ed. I swear I just gave him Ed's number" he swallowed as his mouth was dry and his voice cracked. "After you told me they were dead…I had to know. I gave him a call, asked him what the bloody hell was happening. Said I had a reliable source. I _didn't_ give your name" he insisted. "I just said Snake. He said he didn't know anything. Shit…I believed him" he groaned, with perhaps more pain and grief than when she'd slammed a wooden stick in his chest. "You can have the number, it's in my jacket pocket" he rushed to say.

Despite the initial rush of anger, Milo had started to mellow down. She tossed the cue aside and collapsed on the floor, using the table leg as support. All thoughts of hygiene exited her mind though stray thoughts of having to burn her jeans did cross her mind.

Her arm hurt. The bullet had hit the particular bundle of nerves under the clavicle and though it wasn't severe, her arm was still numb. She hadn't had a drink all day; she'd seen Mycroft of all people and then this.

"He probably already tossed the phone" she muttered in a low voice. "I would have"

Lewis's throat was already red and had signs of a bruise waiting to form, she noticed, as he got up on his elbows and looked at her like a kicked mutt.

"I really am sorry" he muttered.

She couldn't say 'serves you right, tosser' and 'check your clients next time, moron' because he wasn't a greenhorn failing his first job. He'd fucked up. Badly. This, she supposed, only happened to the greats. Mocking it up as a rookie meant getting beaten up to an inch of your life or spending a couple of months in the clink. Only Lewis could have gotten two paranoid people killed and one wounded without even knowing it.

"So he knows me…" she said.

"Yeah" he muttered and collapsed back on the floor.

"Who the bloody hell knows me _and _wants me and Gills dead?" she asked herself.

Lewis raised his head and gave her a look.

"Fine" she admitted. "A few people, sure. But at least I'd know I'd get offed by a professional, hundreds of feet off, one bullet – one kill. This was just an insult" she pulled the photograph out of her pocket and tossed it over. "This your librarian bird?"

Lewis took a look at it and recoiled, getting up faster than a man like him would have.

"Oh yeah. I forgot you've never seen a corpse before" Milo said, oddly cheered up.

He ignored her and signaled to the bartender, who had been holding a cup as a shield and stood back, nearly hugging the liquor cabinet. Two shot glasses were promptly filled to the brim with scotch.

"Yeah, that's her" the information broker confirmed as he downed a glasses.

"Great" Milo got up as well, her hands reaching to dust off her jeans before she decided it wasn't worth getting her hands filthy. She grabbed the second glass. "I need a meeting with Jay"

* * *

College is not fun.

Here is something fun though:

Fun Fact #1: The restaurant in the pilot of Sherlock is an actual restaurant by that address. The Sherlock Holmes pub.

Fun Fact #2: HOLMES is an IT system used in the UK for serial killers and multi-million pound frauds. It's an backronym for Home Office Large Major Enquiry System.

Fun Fact #3: Snake Eyes is the lowest possible roll in craps, almost always being a loss. It is however the highest starting hand in poker.


	7. Chapter 7

**Risk**

* * *

_Games are a compromise between intimacy and keeping intimacy away ~ Eric Bern_

* * *

Drug dealing rarely happened in the corner of an alley, nowadays. Nor were the dealers scruffy, dangerous looking men with features hidden in shadows.

Jay wore an expensive suit, an assorted silk tie and carried a suitcase. His dirty blonde hair was carefully styled with a rebellious curl that gave him a sort of boyish charm to complement his baby face. He had a wide, beautiful smile that showed off dimples and straight pearly teeth.

It only widened when he saw Milo. He gestured for her to sit by him at the café and she did, albeit feeling in stark contrast to his casual elegance in her long coat, cargo trousers and a large T-shirt.

"Hey Thumbelina, how are you?" he asked, getting up and extending to kiss her cheeks instead of simply shaking her hand. Milo complied so that she wouldn't have to explain her still sore arm before sitting down.

Thumbelina, Goldilocks, Rapunzel…nicknames of those who _really_ didn't know any better. Those same people tried to ruffle her hair, insisting on some sort of familiarity that stretched beyond their casual acquaintance. And Jay wanted to be familiar with _everyone_.

"I'm well. Yourself?" she asked in a neutral business-like but polite tone. She hadn't had to deal with Jay much. Whatever chemical indulgence she had, she could procure on her own and having someone know her vices appalled her. That was the reason he didn't know her _other _name and she wanted it that way.

He was of opinion that whoever wanted to indulge, could and should. He didn't press drugs on kids, he hardly questioned his clients and felt that quality was better than quantity even if he didn't personally use. He saw himself as an acquirer, not a drug dealer. It was what made him dangerous. If asked, he'd answer, plainly and clearly about his buyers simply because he didn't consider any of it as wrong. That wasn't something Milo could afford.

"I'm good" he smiled charmingly and she caught some of the girls three tables down stare at him, enraptured. "I've mingled here and there. Got some new important clients" he wiggled his eyebrow and smiled good-naturedly. Anything and everything he did looked like a calendar pose and while that might have attracted any red-blooded woman on the streets and inside the café, it did little for Milo. Not because he didn't look good, but because she could do it too and it made him lose some of his appeal. He made it look easy, but it wasn't.

"Can I buy you anything?" he asked, stirring his cappuccino.

"Yes, please. A double espresso. I insist on paying, however"

He gestured to the waitress and ordered for her, including a small plate of croissants before returning to the conversation. "Nonsense. I wish to maintain my status as a gentleman, after all"

"Nonetheless, I was the one asking for you" she said, tone slightly clipped. The politeness was tiresome.

He bowed his head gracefully and licked his spoon with far more delicate movements than it would have required. At this point, most of the female population in the area had begun to stare. "What exactly is it that you want? I recently acquired a shipment of the finest Peruvian candy, but I doubt that's what you're interested in…?"

"I'm not" she paused. "But it does sound interesting" she thanked the waitress, who lingered for a few unnecessary seconds to stare at Jay, in the awkward silence of those who didn't talk in front of strangers.

When she scampered off, Milo continued. "I want to know more about one of your clients. Henry Gilbert sponsored her, I believe"

"Ah" his face lit up. "Gills, yes. I believe I know who you speak of"

She extended the photograph across the table and enjoyed seeing his face fall and pale. His eyes – a startling clear baby blue – were locked on hers.

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure" she answered truthfully, sipping her tar coloured mixture with an expression that was the very picture of pleasure. "That's what I've been trying to find out. What exactly can you tell me about her?"

Still shaken, his hands closed around his cup for warmth. "I assume you only want the facts"

"Yes, I do, but anything helps" she answered, stirring her coffee.

He nodded. "Her name was Elizabeth Lewis. She purchased some buds regularly. Off the record, strictly cash, with perfect regularity. I asked her about it and why Gills had sent her to me, seeing as he didn't share my views on chemical vices" he sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "She told me and I did something I truly rarely do" he gave a weary chuckle. "I gave her a discount" he paused and started stirring his half-finished drink with a thoughtful expression.

Milo frowned and tapped her short manicured fingernails on the spoon. She could smell his cologne vividly, along with that of the girls' three tables down, the businessman in the corner table, the waitress and pedestrians. The coffee scent was intoxicating and intermingling with various pastries. The sun got in her eyes and the pressure of her clothes was making her skin twitch. His theatrics were no longer amusing, nor were his sensibilities bearable. He was a glorified drug pusher with money made from other people's addiction, with so called principles that fit his life style as much as his so-called tailored suit did in the Middle Ages –

She stopped her irritated mental ramblings right there, as he started speaking again.

"She wasn't purchasing for herself. She worked at an old people's home and as far as she told me, some were in pain. Real pain. They were dying and the legal drugs had little effect anymore and the doctors there didn't give them something stronger or even change the prescriptions because of one reason or another. She explained but I'm no doctor. Thing is, they were already dying" he picked at the croissants. "She knew that it wasn't legal but it did help them for a bit"

"Alright" she stopped him, before he started reserving his spot on the soap box. "Did anyone else know?"

Jay blinked. "No, I haven't spoken much about her. She preferred it that way"

"So it was just you and Gills who knew about this" Milo concluded.

"Yes. As far as I know. She would have gotten into a lot of trouble if the authorities had realized"

She was handing out illegal drugs, even one as light as marijuana, to a bunch of elderly citizens who were supposed to be in her care. Yes, Milo supposed she would have gotten into trouble, no matter the good intentions she might have had. And even if Henry had agreed, which meant that he must have thought it somewhat legitimate, she doubted the opinion of yet another old man meant as much to the courts of law as it did for her.

Her cup rattled against the plate when she jumped. Her trousers were vibrating. She began removing phones off her person: the first, her personal and private phone – the most expensive of them, custom made as all her long-term gadgets – that only had her closest acquaintances and those she saw as civilians; the second, the phone that looked normal – not too expensive, not too shabby to draw looks – of close allies and possible contacts; the third – currently dinging with an old ringtone no one used anymore, not aged by itself but definitely an old cheap model without any sort of contacts in it and the one that got regularly tossed every few days.

_Come to the East London Cemetery – SH_

She looked at it dumbly.

It dinged again, causing the whole table to rattle with the vibration.

_Now, if you could – SH_

Jay looked at her, amused. "Who is it?"

"I haven't the foggiest" she answered truthfully.

_SH, _**SH**…she could only recall a woman called Shelly Hartman, a maid in Seattle who was very hard to rattle, had about ten ways of removing blood from clothes and could clean a mansion the size of the Winchester Mystery House perfectly in less than two days.

What was she doing in the cemetery where – oh.

"I'm a moron" she uttered, drinking the last of her espresso and stealing a croissant, which was promptly put in her mouth. She pulled a crumpled twenty pound bill from one of the many trouser pockets and tossed it on the table.

She removed the pastry from her lips enough to say her farewells. "Right, I'm off. Thanks for the information and here's a little friendly advice. Keep all jobs to the minimum. Just what you need to pay rent or eat"

"Is something going on?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. Keep yourself safe, regardless. A lot of people died lately" she saluted lightly and went in search of a cab, biting again out of her improvised breakfast.

Sherlock Holmes was _bold_. In some ways, she liked that.

She'd wanted him as a contact because from the entire experience, it showed he was at least a decent detective – more than decent if Mycroft was his brother, but that entailed the idea that there was an entire family of Mycrofts nested somewhere, which was frankly more than she could handle.

If asked the simple question of 'what did she know about murders?' the answer would be equally simple.

Nothing.

As many frequent travellers like her, she'd found herself often reading cheap mystery novels and little 'solve-it-yourself's and as someone who'd been stranded in a hotel room or apartment for more than a month, she'd seen many seasons of 'Midsomer Murders'. It had left her with a distinct fear of small communities and the vague idea that she was most certainly not cut out to be a detective. She could commit crimes, yes, but solving involved an entire backwards sort of thinking process.

She gave him her number, because she intended to contact him again and being accustomed to paranoid individuals who didn't answer for an unknown caller – her being one of them – she'd decided to prevent further confusion.

Milo had never expected _him_ to make the first move.

It left her with a satisfied smirk that resided on her face for the duration of the car ride.

* * *

The graveyard looked much less imposing than it did when harbouring a serial killer. John even thought it looked peaceful and quiet and if you ignored all the skeletons grinning away inside the darkness of the ground, even welcoming, especially considering the gardens.

It stood in stark contrast to the two presences beside him. Sherlock always seemed to gallop when excited and the thief, who much to his surprise had showed up right after them, seemed to float from shadow to shadow with vivid distaste.

His mistrustful glances in her direction had caught her reaction to being caught in direct sunlight and she had seemed most displeased, as if willing a healthy thundercloud to act as her personal hat.

If during the night, in fluorescent lighting and in a graveyard she'd seemed like a ghost, in direct sunlight, she looked nothing short of heroin addict with a dire case of anaemia. If she'd have stood by a freshly painted wall, no one could have pointed her out if not for her decision to wear completely black clothes. Her hair, more white than blonde, did not help matters.

The only reason John did not distrusting the self-described common criminal to the point of hostility was simple: Mycroft.

If Mycroft, a man who had _kidnapped_ him because he had moved in with his little brother, had no qualms about allowing her near them, he wasn't going to worry much. And since they knew each other, if she _did _do something – anything – he was fairly sure that the man would respond with all the force of whatever secret service he had contacts with.

If John wouldn't have known better, he would have thought that Sherlock got the same feeling.

That she only seemed to dislike Mycroft meant that she would deny further contact with him, though considering that he'd offer a lot of money and that she was a thief presumably _for_ the money, only time would tell.

The addition to their, already strange, threesome was the missing security guard. He had been terrifying into submission by a badge waving Sherlock, assisted by a badge-carrying Milo.

He didn't have one. For one, he was never a very good liar. It had cost him more than one casual relationship. Secondly, if caught doing something illegal – and at the rate it was going, Sherlock was definitely going to get him caught doing _something _– he didn't really want to explain that one. One stolen badge and a presumably forged one was enough for him.

Besides, among two police officers who looked all business and had seen through the bad lies the guard had constructed as if they were psychic, he was all but forgotten. The poor man was babbling about the day guard's illness, the fact that he'd taken up his shift and coffee.

"So I did have more coffee than usual. It happens" he rambled on as he had for the entire walk. "You can't even read something or listen to the radio, as a guard. And er…well, you know how coffee can be" he said, tone bordering on whine, as if talking about an unruly mistress.

His eyes seemed to get drawn back to Milo, who ignored him, taking the time to alternate her glares between the sun and the graves.

He patted his slightly prominent stomach, and moved his head as an explanation. John caught the meaning easily and hid an amused smile, while Sherlock frowned at the guard.

"It, er…stimulated the old stomach"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and continued walking. Milo's lips twitch into a smile, such a short one that it could have been simply a muscle spasm before looking hiding behind her hair.

"How many caskets did you say there were in here?" John asked, feeling slightly uneasy in the entire situation. The fact that a serial killer had taken even some measure of refuge inside of graveyard seemed fundamentally wrong, in a narrative causality sort of way. One would expect ghosts or divine intervention to resolve the fact but nothing had happened and everything had gone his way, except the murder of another person. And that only because said person had been really prepared for it. If any other person with a more romantic side to them would have heard of such a fact, they'd have been appalled. John was merely miffed.

"Two. The burials were this morning. These here are the plots" the man pointed to indeed, fresh looking plots of land, marked with tombstones and covered in fresh flowers.

"Thank you, that will be all, for now" Sherlock dismissed him and cut him off with a look when he opened his mouth. "We'll call you if there's anything else"

Stammering and nearly tripping on a root, the guard did leave. It had been really plain bad luck that he hadn't been there or, perhaps, really _really_ good luck. No one knew about the killer's determination or discrimination in victims, but one could only assume he'd have shot that man easily.

Seemingly coming out of her trance, Milo passed a hand through her hair, pushing it back and said, clearly and definitively. "No"

"What?" Sherlock asked, woken up from whatever ideas were passing through his mind.

"I'm telling you: no. You have the look of a man who's currently dying for a shovel. I might have broken the law more times than I can count, but I cross a line at grave desecration"

John looked at his flatmate. "You really want to dig the graves?" he asked in a cautious tone, simply because he thought it was something Sherlock would do.

"No" he answered, but the hand that passed over his face and the pause before his answer said yes.

Flatmate or not, John might have rebelled at that.

"Look, do you really think he would have dumped the gun here?" she asked, even though no one, least of all John, had told her that that's what they had been looking for.

"He was fleeing, he was desperate" Sherlock thought, bouncing along the alleyway as if he had been made out of rubber, gesticulating his thoughts without voicing them. "He's clever. If he was about to get caught, he would have tossed the gun and everything would have been _circumstantial_!"

"Yes, but was he panicking?" she asked, leaning on a nearby tombstone. "He ran here for a reason. He had established a get-away. And even _if_ he had been desperate, this place is immense and the hiding spots are too numerous to count. He might have placed it in the caskets" she admitted. "It would be the best place for them but he might have also dug a hole, he might have stashed it in the altar for all we know"

"He wouldn't have stashed it in the altar" Sherlock huffed, still moving about.

"I know that. It was an example" she said evenly. "And even if you do find it, what would it prove?"

"Everything!" the detective exclaimed. "How he got it, why it's connected to a previous felony, we could match the prints! Honestly, how have you not been caught by now?!" he yelled, and if they had been in a tunnel or an empty room, the echoes would have been deafening.

In fact, all sounds should have stopped, flocks should have taken to the sky, crickets should have started to sing. It would have been appropriate. John noted with mild alarm that her eyes had narrowed to fine slits and was glaring at him with full force, enough to cause a shiver of alarm to pass down his spine and make his hand unconsciously reach for his handgun. Then, in merely seconds, it passed, as if the words had flown past her.

"I can get you that information even without the gun itself" she answered calmly and his eyes fixated on her.

"I also learned something interesting today you might find interesting" she smiled, though it looked like a tiger eyeing its prey. "Shall we go for some coffee?" and never have such words been said with such hostility.


	8. Chapter 8

**Jenga**

* * *

_"When your opponent's sittin' there holdin' all the aces, there's only one thing to do: kick over the table." ~ Dean Martin_

* * *

Money makes people do strange things. Kill others, betray a loved one, _steal_…

Caution goes to the wind when someone mentions a large enough sum. Rarely was anyone subjected to differences.

There were, of course, a select few. Thieves were, strangely, a sturdy example of those people. Robbing thieves was really much ado about nothing and tricking them just made them laugh. Most had very poor impulse control as it was and spent quite a lot on whatever they came across be it a very tasty looking pie or a sack full of beanie babies. They freely liberated whatever else they wanted, anyway. Con-artists were others, or at least a select few of them.

Good con-artists thought it was all about the money but great ones knew that it wasn't.

Money came and went.

Money was also the sole reason Milo could think of, regarding the sudden stupidity fit that seemed to have hit the criminal society of London.

Two years she'd been gone from the city as if she owed it money. She had departed with the serious intent of never coming back because there was nothing left there for her; two years of small-time thefts and short-cons, more gambling in Vegas and Monte Carlo than was thought appropriate on _any_ budget, watching crap telly, catching up to the appropriate pop culture, getting drunk or stoned or both and generally waiting for something to happen or catch her eye. Dubai, Paris, Cairo…had all been a distraction. Nothing to write about, really. And when something _did_ happen, it happened to this magnitude.

In London. With her reliable contacts, dead.

Watch what you wish for, indeed.

She tried to assure herself that the entire criminal world hadn't suddenly gone incompetent, she simply had different standards.

Two years was a long time for those who live in the moment. People were dead or in prison, retired or under surveillance. Henry and Eddie had been the only ones she'd ever needed in her home town and with them gone, she'd been forced to rely on those she'd stopped talking to years ago; people who didn't know her accomplishments, her name, her expectations for perfection. To them, she was another short-con dip who came and went. Which, if you're a criminal, was exactly what you wanted, granted, but it didn't earn you much respect.

Except…she couldn't fool herself. They were stupid. More than stupid, they were damned suicidal.

She'd extricated enough information from Lewis the night before to know that. The killer – possibly her _future_ killer if things persisted on their course – had purchased a gun from a small time gun dealer.

Ol' Tom – whose name wasn't really Tom or Thomas or even Toma – regularly purchased hot ones at a discount and later sold them to morons who didn't know better or people low on cash.

They key word was '_cash'_, which was what probably drove Tom to not verify the person he was selling the gun to. No name, no address, not even a proper description other than 'Tall, stout bloke. Wore gloves and a hood' but with more cockney accent and spitting.

It was an embarrassment. She prided herself on being part of a community that was cleverer than your average copper and there they went and proved her wrong.

Her fingers blurred across the keyboard of her phone, stopping herself from sulking and stomping her feet like a spoiled brat who hadn't gotten what she'd wanted.

"So…" John cleared his throat as if he'd started to talk about an obvious sore subject, like asking for her weight while dangling his spoon in his cup of tea he had sweetened "How do you know Mycroft?"

She looked at him from beyond her own cup, frowning at the sudden shift from her own thoughts to his. "Didn't you ask him?"

"I did" he paused. "Said and I might paraphrase here 'Stay out of things that don't concern you'"

She smirked. "Then why would you think my answer would be any different?" she stabbed the keys with her fingers with vitriolic force at a newly received message.

"Can't blame a man for trying" he said.

She grinned and didn't answer. She liked him.

Them.

It made the strategy of pushing them in front of a bullet meant for her go down a few, but it didn't make it less likely to be employed in a tight spot. She stole a glance towards Sherlock, whom so far she could only think of as 'Mycroft's brother'. Better looking than his brother, of whom she'd once said that she wouldn't kick him out of bed if he worked on his attitude, but one of his brood, nonetheless. She still wasn't sure he was even human, after all.

Watching him, she couldn't tell if he was people watching or just trying to anticipate exactly why she'd brought them to a café so far away from their original point. Well, a reason beside the fact that there was no café with _really_ good coffee in Plaistow. John was focusing most of his attention between his own beverage, the street and her, as if she was planning to do something horrible to either of them before reconsidering.

In truth, Milo felt a bit uneasy. Randomly popping up to annoy Mycroft was one thing, but sidling up to Nancy Drew here and his friend was a bit too close to actual police. Criminals and detectives shouldn't mix, she thought. Why they shouldn't mix wasn't the point, although it involved handcuffs, bars and distasteful outfits, which were really cliché.

Despite that, they were the only ones she could trust not to get her killed, at the moment.

Her professionally dour expression was in danger of cracking.

Milo Rivers wore different behaviours like models changed clothes. She had a very different array of personas stashed away and all of them were displayed to the extent of a multiple personalities disorder. She wondered which one was best to display and came up empty. If Sherlock was anything like his brother, he'd be easy to annoy but hard to trick and John…was another story.

In the end, she wasn't much up for chatting either and as she removed the photograph of the dead 'librarian bird' out of her pocket and extended it, she felt somewhat liberated by the fact that she didn't have to deal with it on her own.

"I might have learned something about her" she started, twirling her spoon around her coffee, absorbing its scent and watching its texture. "But before sharing anything, I will have your word for discretion. There are various things I'd prefer the police never know"

"Would you trust it?" John asked, exhibiting a remarkable amount of insight.

She smirked lazily. "No, probably not. Takes time for that, but I'd know who I'm dealing with. For example, I know that I can trust Mycroft's word" she baited.

She left out the fact that if she could trust Mycroft at all, it was only because he had too much of an ego to admit he could be beaten, but she felt that said flaw could easily apply to his younger version. And by the glares Sherlock had thrown Mycroft, she could easily play the sibling rivalry angle.

"What are they to you? The old man, particularly…" he asked. "Not a friend and certainly not an enemy" he tossed her words back at her. "The age difference is too large for lover or close family relationship. Surrogate father perhaps?"

She paused. "Henry was a father to a lot of people" she said with a bit of consideration.

Henry _had_ in fact, felt like a father. He certainly _acted_ fatherly, or grandfatherly as it were, for every child he'd ever met and it was hard to remember that he actually _was _a father. His daughter had gotten married young to a business man and had gone to live in Manchester. They called every once in a while, but certainly not enough for it to be considered an ordinary day when they did. She also had a daughter of her own.

Henry, you could say, had become a fence for lack of better things to do. He had been old even when he'd started the whole affair, after his shop – the one where he'd worked for thirty years, where little street rats and little rich kids had been introduced to more history than they could ever learn in school – had been demolished. She couldn't say that she'd pushed him into the life, but he had adopted it at her suggestion.

As such, she felt a bit responsible about what his family might learn. She imagined the shock the prim schoolteacher might have to learn that her father – decent, lovable, wise Henry Gilbert – had been one of the most notorious names in London. Granted, he never hurt anyone and even making a threat was entirely out of character, but what else would she think?

"That's not an answer" he replied.

"It's the only one you'll ever going to get"

He paused to consider this and leaned against the table in a more comfortable pose. "Very well, you have my word"

Her eyes passed to John who had watched the interaction as if it had been a tense tennis match. "Oh, you don't have to worry about me"

She leaned back, looking at her watch for an indication of time passed, if not the correct time, and wondered how she should start.

"Henry Gilbert, also known as Gills, had been one of the higher class fences that operated around most of England. His specialities were artefacts and jewellery, sometimes paintings. Anything with a bit of history attached to it. Ironically, he was best known for not being known at all. Like I said, strictly high class. You had to go through an enormous web of contacts just to get his name or contact information but the feat was well worth it. Anyone could leave an item in his hands and return to get his money after the thing had been sold because he simply that trustworthy" she smirked lightly. "And having a bunch of crooks and thieves trust you that much is quite something"

"He was meeting someone that night" Sherlock said, not asked, much like a curious child who tried to finish the story himself. His whole body was turned to her as if she was telling the most marvellous fairytale about dragons and knights. Although, perhaps, to him it was actually that.

"Indeed, he was" she nodded, taking another sip of coffee and fidgeting with the spoon, then lighting a cigarette furtively. "He sent me a message to meet him, the night he died. Something about it being urgent. When I did get there, he wasn't present, but he had left me a note stating that he was meeting Eddie"

"Eddie? Who's Eddie?" John asked, also caught in the conversation.

She pointed with her spoon. "You might know him better as Matthew Cole"

"The last body" Sherlock muttered, eyes closed. The small space around her started to smell subtly of clove and if he breathed in just deep enough, he could feel a rush.

"Right again. Ed was a fixer" she watched as the detective's eyes opened to stare at her again, as if he was waiting for something. "A very good fixer. He started as a construction worker-" he gave a tiny satisfied smile "- but after meeting Henry, he sort of shifted towards that. Ed wasn't the cleverest fixer in town, but he could get anything you'd ever want in less than two days and that made him invaluable. Of course, it was also very easy to get on his good side. The shorter the skirt and the taller the glass, the more he liked you. Speaking of skirts…" she remembered "How did you know that the woman at the crime scene wasn't the one who found the body?"

Sherlock's studious expression changed into one of self-confidence. "Simple. Her gloves"

"Hm" she smiled, cupped her hand around the cigarette and took a long drag. "Well, she had to wear them. If she'd had left any prints, you might have had to ID her" she exhaled.

"Wait, so …the woman at the crime scene didn't find the last body?" John interjected, trying to make sense of things.

"No, I did" Milo said. "I figured Ed might have known what happened. I didn't know I was going to find him dead"

"How do her gloves say anything?"

"Her fingernails were too long. Gloves would have torn them, wearing them would be uncomfortable. It wouldn't have been her choice to wear them, even in freezing weather" Sherlock explained and turned to her. "Do you still have the note?"

"Back at the hotel. Nothing interesting on it, though. Just that he was meeting Ed. Which would have been impossible since-"

"He'd been dead for nearly two weeks" he finished.

"Exactly" she confirmed. "His phone was nowhere in his flat, so I assumed the killer took it so as to lure Henry somewhere. Both were fairly hard to catch off guard, but Henry had few people who actually knew where he lived. Ed was one of them. If the killer hadn't managed to get the address from Ed or anyone else, it was his only choice of actually getting a shot at him" she finished her cigarette and crushed it beneath her heel before starting to rummaged through her pockets.

Sherlock tore away his hand from his position and tapped the photograph. "And the woman?"

"Apparently she knew Henry" she stated, slowly growing more frustrated with the large amount of pockets.

"I know that! What else?" he asked impatiently.

"Henry put her in contact with a drug supplier" she lowered her voice even more. "Weed. Bought buds regularly"

Milo smirked when her fingers found purchase and removed a rolled up wad of fifty pound notes out of an inner pocket. She stretched her hand out, leaning it on the back of the chair. In a matter of moments, a young man dressed in a dark jumper with a hoodie drawn up passed by on a skateboard and the money disappeared only to be replaced by a manila folder. Relaxed, she acted as if this sort of thing happened often – which it did if you wanted something delivered quickly, inconspicuously and without tracks – and passed the folder on to Sherlock without looking at it.

"I have a question in return" she started, finishing her coffee. "Who exactly was the first one to be killed?"

John paused, looked at his flat mate who did not seem intent on sharing anything with the folder in front of him and cleared his throat. "He was a police officer"

Milo's eyes widened in an almost child-like wonder though her words certainly disproved her innocence. "You're fucking with me"

* * *

Simon 'Pinkie' Masterson was chewing on some bread.

Partially, it was the nerves. On the other hand, he really liked bread.

It calmed him down for a bit, though his fingers were still trembling and he did not trust his knees. The call he had gotten had been most unnerving.

Eddie, Big Ed, was dead.

And Pinkie had thought that he was still mad at him and that's why he hadn't given him a call.

He understood why he hadn't been informed of it sooner. He didn't really have what it took to be in the criminal world, which was common sense, intuition, some kind of idea about the law and the ability of thinking on his feet but he more than made up for it with enthusiasm. There was hardly a more enthusiastic fence and apprentice-fixer in the whole of London.

He had seen every spy, thief or grifter movie ever made. He watched 'The Sting' religiously every week and every time he picked up new things. He'd tried to make his shabby little car more like Bond's Aston Martin, except the legendary spy had nifty little gadgets like rocket propulsion, a cloaking device and lasers and Pinkie's had trouble with drain covers…

The feeling was there, though.

He felt vaguely confused about the current events and very confused about being confused. He had expected his wide collection of movies and shows to prepare him better for the eventuality of what was happening but that seemed like it wasn't the case. In fact, the idea of a serial killer terrified him. He had killed _Eddie_.

He had had quite the hero crush on Eddie.

Eddie was _amazing_.

And Snake Eyes, of course, was somewhere at the middle of it. He had heard of Snake Eyes as well. He liked the stories and urged others to tell them to him every time they learned of one. He'd heard about Prague, of course. And Bern. His skin just erupted into goose bumps of hero worship every time someone mentioned Bern.

But a whole alert had been placed. The idea, as was told to him, was shake the ground from beneath the man who had dared to take away Ed and Gills. He might have gotten away from two or three encounters, but there were plenty of people with an ear to the ground and if all of them kept an eye out…

Snake Eyes knew what she was doing. A surge of pride swelled in his chest at the idea that he was one of the few who knew that Snake Eyes was female but quickly died down only to be replaced by panic. What if he did something wrong and they'd be mad at him?

He hadn't had much instruction. Eddie was supposed to show him the ropes, teach him tricks, let him make contacts. He was all alone. The idea of upsetting his heroes made the bread taste like cardboard.

And then a cold shiver passed him. He'd called Eddie. Worst off, he'd left a message on his phone, something that wasn't ever, _ever_, _**ever**_ to be done. He swallowed but it felt as though he'd chewed glass.

Did the killer actually have Ed's phone? And what did that mean for him?

* * *

There was blood on his hands, steadily seeping between her fingers. The bandage was tightened close to being painful and the puddle that had been steadily growing was staining his shoes.

The pictures in front of him were of a beautiful blonde…a modern Veronica Lake, with slightly sweeter features, long white blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. She was on the phone and grinning, hair tickling her neck and falling down her back in gentle curves or sitting on a chair, in a café, reading something on the phone, pursed pink lips wrapped around a cigarette like an idol from years past.

It was the kind of woman he never would have had a shot with, back in the day. Beautiful, confident in her looks enough to only wear baggy clothes and no make-up to mar her features. Her long, delicate fingers were clutching the black plastic so gently and he imagined them gripping his blood-soaked ones as they took her life.

She was so different from his wife. His former wife. She'd left so long ago. Or was it sooner? He didn't remember. His hands cradled his head, staining the skin with crimson.

Why didn't he remember as he used to? Why did time seem so vague? He started an exercise he had started years ago: multiplications, radicals, complicated calculations with numbers of five or six figures which he couldn't solve. He couldn't focus.

He wasn't going to kill her. He shot her and she …survived. A sign or something more? He wasn't sure. She was along the others…those others that had also interfered. They…they did have to die. He was sure.

He was sure of so little anymore…

A dream was haunting him. A ship with a broken mast, the Thames, red as the blood on his hands and limbs like branches clinging onto the deck and pulling…

He had the certainty of a disaster and he suddenly became afraid…


	9. Chapter 9

**Hopscotch**

* * *

"_The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime, the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive."_Arthur Conan Doyle

* * *

Milo watched as, for the second time in as many meetings, Sherlock jumped at a black cab and it just stopped for him.

Few things puzzled her: math tests, kittens and marriage to name a few, and this certain knack for grabbing a taxi became a recent addition to the list. It wasn't as if you couldn't get a black cab if you_ really_ tried to, but she always preferred just asking for one by phone or booking one because a lot of them just tended to ignore you.

Another problem was that London traffic was many things but what it wasn't, was fast. For someone as, well, _exuberant_ so as not to say, hyperactive or attention deficit, as Milo was, the traffic was cause for much swearing and frustration.

Granted, very few wanted to get in a car driven by her, and if asked she'd answer, quite truthfully, that she learned how to drive from an old Chinese lady, nicknamed "Madam Danglers" for her...courage, on the streets of Beirut. For years, she'd thought that indicator lights were for the weak, speed bumps were made to add to your off-road skills and lanes were optional. On the other hand, she could change a tire in 1.53 minutes flat and could drive in complete darkness even alongside other cars.

It was little wonder that she refused to drive in London.

She looked at John, who seemed pretty determined to just ignore her and stick by Sherlock.

"Hey" she leaned in conspiratorially, catching his eye.

He frowned in question and lowered his head slightly, curious in spite of himself. "Yes?"

"How does he do it? I haven't ever been able to do that and _I _have breasts!" she sounded absolutely righteously outraged.

John smiled in amusement and then pretended to consider the question seriously. "I think it's the coat, actually"

"The coat" she snapped her fingers. "Think I could get the same response if I wore nothing _but _the coat?" she hinted mischievously then reconsidered. "Although I would probably attract the attention of everyone _but_ the cabbies. Maybe he's magic?" she suggested.

This extracted a less restricted chuckle.

"Coming?" Sherlock asked, halfway outside of the cab, glaring at them both.

"Grumpy little elf" she muttered, for John's ears only, making him snort in an attempt to suppress laughter, before she gracefully climbed in under the detective's eyes.

When someone didn't like you, it was always best to make them laugh. Somehow, for whatever reason, they always thought you more...harmless, innocent...pleasant. An illusion really, but a useful one. One of life's little cheats in getting people to like you besides having them do you a favour.

She watched as the detective stared at her for a while longer than normal, but whether he realized what she was doing or not, it hardly mattered.

* * *

Too few watched without actually seeing, Sherlock thought.

Any thoughts about how others were doing so annoyed as well as intrigued him. If they thought that his brain work was strange, so did theirs seem to him. He'd solved more cases than he could remember, and if he were to be truly honest with himself – which he thrived to be – he'd gotten lucky for perhaps six of them; though he told himself that it would have been best to forget much about them except perhaps the methods, most were still at the top of his mind. In none of them had a professional criminal become an asset.

Not for him. He knew of the practice, but he didn't need it nor had he ever entertained the thought.

Still, perhaps Mycroft had had a good reason to keep one close. A docile criminal had many assets and if said criminal had attracted his brother's attention, she was far from the common rabble that cheated an old woman out of her pension.

Being comfortable somewhere, in a profession that rarely lends itself to luxuries such as feeling safe or trusting in someone, was a devilishly hard skill to acquire.

It involved much more than simple mastery of nimble hands or observing instead of simply watching. It was overriding entire behavioural tics from a large range that included flinching, eye movement and posture. At strange sounds, there would be no jumping or rapid turn of the head. Layers would be stripped and there would be an exposure of points thought, in an animalistic fashion, important such as the throat.

She did them all, conforming to his ideas that she was indeed, if anything, at least professional about her actions.

Reaching Baker Street, she'd certainly acted much more at home than in her previous visit. She'd dumped her coat, plopped in the centre of _his couch_ and used the Wi-Fi, while stealing food from John's plate.

Then she offered him teacakes which had been in her pocket.

Unsanitary, really.

Not to mention more than a bit strange.

There would have been nothing intriguing or interesting about her, except for the fact that there was _nothing_ intriguing or interesting about her. Every dedicated criminal had something decisively personal: a hint of personality hidden under layers. All she had were …teacakes.

It was too confusing, focusing on both the case and his new 'associate'. In a sudden fit of inspiration, he decided not to throw her out. When he solved the case, he'd probably never meet her again, even if he debased himself by asking Mycroft about her. And he knew he'd be bored again after this.

She lit a cigarette, the space around her slowly filling with the subtle scent of smoke and clove.

"So, what are you doing?" John asked, peering at the screen. One thing was certain, she was not using Windows.

"Checking up on records on Ol' Bill" she answered plainly, tapping her fingers against the edge of the keyboard, waiting for the exploit to unravel.

Hollywood hacking seemed so glamorous. No one told you that most of it involved issuing the command and then waiting until you barely even needed whatever you wanted to hack into.

"Wait…you're hacking into the _Met_?!"

"Say that louder" she deadpanned. "There are some deaf people in China who missed that" she issued another command in a window that looked vaguely like command prompt and a downloading bar appeared.

"But…I mean…Is that hard?" he stumbled, peering at the self-filling bar.

"Not particularly. Depends who's doing it and what they know about the software. In this case, I'm doing it and I'm …me. And I know enough about their security algorithms to make it easy" she continued, adding another command.

Sherlock noted, with slightly interest and forensic attention, that she wasn't looking at her fingers and that her eyes weren't entirely focused on the screen in front of her. It was a familiar procedure and she was quite definitely avoiding something. For lack of further information on his case, he focused on her. After all, he still hadn't presented those bullets to Lestrade.

It would have been pointless. He knew who the shooter was and just by looking, he could tell the calibre. Presenting them would have included explaining to the DI, who would have tried to restrict him, yet again. And annoyed him. He was starting to get suspicious about the lost badges, too.

Lestrade wouldn't have presented the files, had he asked for them. Not without a fuss.

He told himself this was quicker.

Milo closed her eyes tightly, announced that it was done and plopped the metallically black case into John's lap. "You read it" she declared and got up to pace.

It had not been a good day for her. She'd known it from the café. The smells, the sounds…

She needed a drink.

"Alright, so…" John started. "He was single. Childless. A Sergeant. Spotless record" he raised his eyebrows and shook his head appreciatively. "He volunteered, he donated blood"

Wordlessly, he scrolled down through the little black window, fast reading through the facts for anything interesting, twice, before giving up. "There's nothing here"

"That's not possible" Sherlock jumped out of his seat, next to John, checking for himself. "Are you sure you have the right files?" he asked her.

"Yes" she took a drag out of the cigarette with a vitriolic grudge. "Of course I'm sure. There isn't even a misdemeanour or some such?"

John shook his head, allowing his flat mate to take the laptop. "Nothing. Don't you know anything about him?"

She scowled. "I find bent cops distasteful"

John frowned at her, slightly bewildered.

"Are there any of his old cases here?" Sherlock asked, after having carefully watched every line of letters.

"No. I could get to a few more recent ones, but from my experience with any regular type police force, electronic files are an afterthought"

She collapsed in Sherlock's chair while he was too focused to glare or object and muttered to herself. "If this would have been the Secret Service or FBI, it would have been _much_ easier"

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sounds of smoke going in and out of her lungs. It stood in stark contrast to the uncomfortable silence that had taken place in the same room, the night before.

_We're making progress_, thought Milo but it was a silly, short-lived thought that died among larger, more important ones.

The cop had to be bent or else the whole thing was a bust. They'd have to look for another connection.

Thinking something along those lines, John looked at Sherlock. "So, should we ask Lestrade"

"Yes" the detective muttered.

"And I should go and change hotels" she said, getting up and taking away her laptop. A short gesture of goodbye was given, a door was closed and then another. Sherlock leaped off the sofa and pulled out an evidence bag with a dirty plastic cup in it from his coat.

"Should I ask where you got that?" John deadpanned.

He got a look.

"I won't, then" he stared at the cup and at Sherlock, who dripped the last drops of dark liquid into a small Petri dish.

"I'm really hoping that's coffee" he muttered.

"Hm?" Sherlock turned, eyes on the dish. "What? Of course it's coffee"

"Of course" John paused. "Why do you have a dirty coffee cup in your pocket?"

"I'm _testing_" the man snapped and bent down to look through the microscope at the coffee, efficiently ignoring all of his surroundings.

John looked around for a bit of something to do and came up empty.

"Right. Really should get a job now…"

* * *

Pinkie was running circles around the phonebook, eager for answers.

He was trying to find too many things at once, and as was normally the case, he could find neither. He couldn't focus on any of his quandaries.

In front of him, there was a map of London, large and fairly old but still reliable, road-wise. He made large marks on it with a red pen while simultaneously crossing out hotels.

He was searching for everything: Snake Eyes, the killer, helpful little spots. The thought that the concierges at the hotels were on friendly terms or at least on the payroll of Snake Eyes wasn't shared by Ed and thus, hadn't even crossed Pinkie's mind. He kept asking for a short blonde girl with green eyes that paid well and came up empty.

But on the helpful spots, he was doing quite alright.

* * *

Mycroft tapped his fingers on his well polished oak desk, looking out the window. It was a cold but clear night. The only sounds that could be heard were the sounds of a log fire in the fireplace and a pendulum. Those were the only sounds he liked to hear and thus, allowed to be present.

Small, private sounds that indicated exactly how much control he exerted upon the room.

He looked over the papers on his desk, knowing that later he would read his reports dutifully and pleasantly and when he would finish the page, he would carefully put it in the 'read' pile. He liked to stay on top of his work and thus, the pile never got any larger than it was. Unfortunately, it rarely got any smaller.

Beside him, on a silver tray, an antique porcelain tea set served to spread the aroma of a bergamot and lemon mixture. He took a sip, a glimmer of satisfaction evident in his eyes. He hadn't touched the sugar, there were no crust less sandwiches or teacakes but he had allowed himself a bit of milk.

Then he paused.

Something moved at the edge of his vision.

"You're really awfully boring" a voice said. Not just any voice…

His good mood evaporated. A fascinating phenomenon, really. He was getting a headache already.

"I don't believe that is any of your concern"

"Oh, so that's how you're going to be" Milo dipped her fingers into his sugar bowl – Good God, the manners! – and removed a sugar cube which she promptly shoved into her mouth. "Ah coald 'ust 'eav"

Realizing – from both his look and the sounds she made – that she had been incomprehensible, she paused, chewed slowly, passed it around in her mouth until it melted to a manageable size and tried again. "I could just leave"

"Please, see yourself out. After all, you managed to see yourself in, in some fashion or another"

The doors were locked, all windows were closed, he hadn't heard anything that might sound like, say, someone crawling through the vents and anyway, those were locked as tightly as a safe. He _had _to enhance security.

She pouted and slouched on his perfect armchair – perfect not only because it was immaculate but also because it was the perfect mixture of comfort and enforced posture. Somehow, she circumvented that.

Realizing that she was not, in fact, leaving and that she was eyeing his sugar bowl again, Mycroft suppressed a martyr-like sigh and got up from behind his desk to the polished shelves.

"Brandy?"

"Please. That is, unless you're offering tequila, scotch, rum or vodka. Then I'll have those" she stole another sugar cube and added. "_All_ of those"

"Bad day?" he offered the glass like a gentleman and she, like the common little street rat, took it while remaining slouched. Had a coffee table been there, her feet would have found it the perfect rest.

"Every day is a bad day" she muttered with a mouthful of sugar and took a sip of brandy. "But yes"

The two people in the room did not despise themselves in an evident fashion. Their trust in each other extended only as far as their self-confidence in seeing through any possible trick, but both were well versed in politics, etiquette and civility. That meant certain customs were in order, in which, even if they wished each other dead several times over, whoever was the guest got the best tea, food, alcohol and was served on the best dishes with the best manners.

After several such dances, they'd begun enjoying each other, where there had only been uneasy tension before.

"And how are you and my little brother getting along?" he asked, sitting down in the opposite armchair with his own glass. Etiquette demanded he only fill the bottom of the glass, but really, her presence demanded more. His eyes didn't stay alongside the crystal bottle for long, however. Once you knew exactly who Milo was and what she did, you tended to watch her fingers more often than not.

"He doesn't trust me, I don't trust him. We're united in our mistrust for each other" she dramatically gestured, then brought the snifter to her lips. "Thought I'd miss the fact that he filched some bloke's coffee cup" she ranted. "_Me_" she stared right at Mycroft for a bit and took a solemn mouthful of burning liquid. "Your brother's weird"

"So people have been saying" he replied, the same thin lipped smile present on his face, only without the ever-present polite disgust. "How goes the case?"

"I know nothing of murders, except perhaps, how to cover them up, so obviously no progress on my part" she shook her head.

"Well, Sherlock has an unusual amount of experience in this department" he commented with, Milo noted, just a hint of distaste at the fact.

She smiled nastily. "What? Wanted to make him a humble public servant?" she commented from behind the glass.

He threw her a withering look and got up to pour himself more brandy. She extended hers for a refill.

"May I inquire about the reason of your visit?" he extended the now-filled snifter along with a silver ashtray.

She nodded in gratitude and lit a cigarette. "Well, I do still have a little stack of favours here, don't I? The last time we met, I said that you owe me. I trust our truce remains in place"

"So you did and yes, it does" he sat down again and crossed his legs neatly. "Very well, how can I be of service?"

"All the dead guys had some sort of connection except the cop. What do you know of him?"

"You say that as if I've been keeping tabs on this case"

She chuckled. "Mycroft, I've known you for what, five years? You _have_ been keeping tabs on this case. Did you think your Big Brother act – pardon the pun – was going to escape unnoticed?" she inhaled another mouthful of smoke with a smile. "I hadn't even been at their flat for twenty minutes and you were there. You probably monitor his entire life with the zeal of a deranged fan. One question, though: does the Queen approve of the use of her Secret Service for the methodical stalking of one man?"

He raised an eyebrow and solemnly brought the snifter to his lips. "If you are trying to antagonize me, you're on the right track" he paused and reconsidered, then relaxed slowly and his fingertips moved alongside the leather of his armchair, in thought. "I know some of the details of the case"

"And?"

"And from what I've read, the police officer was everything he was believed to be. A fine man, fine public servant. Very little to reproach him, if anything"

She sighed. "That's what the records say. I honestly did not expect to find much about him, seeing as, if he were bent, only his associates would know about it, but even the really careful ones attract some sort of misdemeanour"

"You truly believe he was corrupt?"

"If he wasn't, then the case starts making even less sense than before. Come on, Mycroft, give me _something_"

"I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you. I would suggest you look through the police officer's cases, however. There could be a connection. He was the first one to die, correct?"

"Technically, that would be Ed"

"But the officer was the one he _wanted _to be found. Open door, body right in the living room…" he continued, enjoying his position of superiority. "If I were to venture a guess, well, more than a guess, I'd say that the officer knew him. Shot in the back, was he, then turned…shot again" he elaborated.

She smirked. "How did you brother miss that?"

That smile again. "Sherlock would rather take the rather long and inconvenient road than ask something of someone, at least when in danger of being refused. In this case, he probably preferred leaving the files for a later time, hoping to establish a pattern and find another lead"

She grunted, crumbling the cigarette on the ashtray. "Hm. Can you take care of that?"

"I could call the Chief Inspector and arrange something. I would like something in return, however"

"I would figure getting rid of one of the favours you owe me would be enough" she lit another cigarette.

"I have something more…valuable to me in mind, than getting rid of you"

"That's a first. Alright, spill"

"I want you to report to me on whatever Sherlock is up to"

She raised a delicate eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously like a job. Are you trying to make me responsible? Because it won't work. Better men have tried"

"Would you like me to pay you?" he asked, trying a more sensible approach.

"Oh, no" she smirked. "A favour from you is quite definitely more valuable than money. However, I fear that's impossible for me, seeing as spending too much time with him might drive me bonkers. I'll make a compromise with you, though. I keep you up to date on the case and keep your troublemaking brother from meeting an untimely end. Good enough?"

"Very well. I will make the call in the morning" he paused and took another sip of brandy. His tea was getting cold and remained forgotten inside the pot.

"And I still have my favour" she grinned childishly. "Hey, did you make the same offering to John?"

"Yes" Mycroft game a small, rare toothless grin. "He refused"

She smirked. "You only offered because you were hoping he'd refuse"

"Be it as it may" he shook his head noncommittally, grin still present.

"Did you hope _I'd _take the offer?" she grinned largely.

He got up again and put the glass back on the table. "I think it's time for you to go"

She sighed. "Yeah, gotta go change hotels"

"Where will you be staying?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm going to choose them at random. One more question though"

"What is it?" he turned.

"How _did _someone like your brother end up with someone like John?" she leaned back, eying him carefully. Despite herself, Mycroft was one of the most fascinating men she knew.

"He'd been injured. Afghanistan. His therapist diagnosed him with post-traumatic stress disorder. She'd gotten it the other way around. He missed the adrenaline. They started sharing a flat and well, the rest you know" he said, in as close to a sing-song as dire, serious Mycroft could manage.

"Could still be post traumatic stress disorder, just a different manifestation of it" she shrugged.

"Ah yes, your brilliant psychology studies"

"Partly that. I've known a lot of people with PTSD, as well. From all around the world" she shrugged and got up and his eyes latched on her.

She smirked. "I was going to use the door, if you don't mind"

He tossed her the key.

He could only relax when the door closed, a tension he had kept to a minimum when the door cracked again and a blonde head peaked through.

"By the way, did you lose weight? You look fabulous"

Then she closed the door again. He allowed himself an amused shake of his head.

* * *

Lewis hadn't stopped drinking. Couldn't stop drinking. He tried to light a cigarette a few times but the matches kept breaking between his fingers. He hadn't stopped mumbling either, felt the need to speak, to hear himself, to quell most of the fright that had gotten into his veins. An information broker, resorted to talking out of fear, whatever passed through his head to whomever would listen. His muscles spasmed every time the door opened.

Big city slick, Lewis Appleby. The one who hated his family name. He'd been born in a quaint, sleepy little town north of London. His parents, decent people, had paid for his college. He'd passed through various stages of spleen, depression and feelings of anxiety until he'd found his calling. It didn't take much work. Make friends, take them to the pub and ply them with booze. They'd spill everything.

Sell what you learn to the next schmuck.

Murder. He'd never been a part of a murder. Heard of them, talked of them but never was he so close to one. He whipped his nerves until he could feel the physical pain of thinking, feel the blood run, drip out of his ears. He wasn't right for this job after all.

Donnie lit his cigarette with a lighter but he couldn't even appear grateful. He started to hum and his fingers jingled his keys loudly. His head hurt and for the past day, he'd had a permanent nausea and desire to vomit.

The door opened and he jerked. The beer bottle, for he had finally resorted to drinking beer, fell and its contents spilled all over the table and floor. Donnie jumped and started to clean up, not having the heart to say anything or swear. He just made a quick cup of coffee out of his own bag and pushed it over.

A young man, thin and tall, with a newsboy hat, better placed in a museum, long scarf and raggedy coat – like a misplaced Victorian beggar – came at him with wide eyes.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lewis Appleby?"

"Whaddya want, kid?" he mumbled, drinking half a mug of coffee in one go and steeling his hand against trembling.

"Sir, I'm very happy to meet you. I've heard quite a lot about you"

"Yeah, I'll bet. Skip the introduction, kid. What do you want?"

"Oh…" he stumbled. "Well, I think I may have some information on the killer you've been looking for"

Lewis's cigarette fell in his coffee.


	10. Chapter 10

**Duck, Duck, Goose**

* * *

"_At one time my only wish was to be a police official. It seemed to me to be an occupation for my sleepless intriguing mind. I had the idea that there, among criminals, were people to fight: clever, vigorous, crafty fellows. Later I realized that it was good that I did not become one, for most police cases involve misery and wretchedness — not crimes and scandals." ~ Søren Kierkegaard, Journals and Papers, Volume V_

* * *

His fingertips felt the pale skin of his cheek, formed of angles, as he looked at the behemoths.

They'd been at the Scotland Yard building as soon as possible, early in the morning. As early as that was, however, it wasn't early enough. Lestrade had greeted them, commented about some sort of strings Sherlock might have pulled or some such and told them to wait for the papers. When the first box came, it had a piece of yellow post-it note stuck on it on which was written, in hurried calligraphy: "With my compliments, MR"

Stupid, dull, silly pieces of paper with reports on small nothings filled boxes, brought together into a veritable sea of paper. A man's entire carrier of files and folders: cases he worked on during his free time, cases he'd helped with, cases he couldn't solve and cases he did brought together into a single, cramped, dully painted room.

"Did you start reading these?" John asked Lestrade, who shared a look of resigned panic.

"No. Haven't started yet" the real reason stopped at the tip of his tongue, dread at having to go through so many files and at the same time, feeling like this legacy was inefficient and impersonal, inept at describing the man the victim had been. They hadn't been friends, but the death of a cop always struck hard. Hence why everyone had wanted to help and at the same time shied away, regulations be damned.

Sherlock had already dipped his feet, as it were, jumping head first into the dusty boxes.

To Lestrade, it was both a relief and an insult. He didn't have to start…but to let someone who wasn't on the force.

He mumbled an obligation between his teeth and excused himself. The detective didn't notice. He'd already finished three files and looked at John, who was still on his feet, by the door.

"Take those boxes over there" he gestured towards the other end of the room. "See what you can find. Put them in piles by dates, circumstances, inconsistencies…"

His thin fingers, a musician's hand, marred only by various chemical burns, gripped the folders one by one. On his dark curls, a thin layer of dust had settled.

John dived heroically into the task, removing all the files at once and starting to fast-read through them.

It was several minutes after they'd begun that Sergeant Donovan walked in, a displeased expression on her face, but a decided one. Silently, she grabbed a box and started reading the files inside.

For once, Sherlock didn't comment on her presence.

* * *

The hotel that had come up in the random, mental lottery was the Landmark.

The Atrium Suite was the perfect mix of luxury and privacy, named for its view upon the hotel atrium, separated into a sitting area and a bedroom by a frosted glass French door. It had a minibar, pristine Italian white marble bathtub and walk-in shower, two televisions and unlimited Wi-Fi bandwidth.

The lesson was that crime indeed paid and did so in six figures.

Most of it left her unimpressed, having lived in all sorts of houses and hotels, but luxury always cheered her up so she kept pursuing it.

In the morning, as soon as she woke up, she decided that it was time to go through the old man's duffle bag.

She'd told him about its necessity years back. She had never needed one: her laptop and phones were the only things she'd ever needed and she always had them on her person. She'd also installed a GPS tracking system on them to get them back just in case something happened to them. They were important. The rest of her things…well, she had stashes of cash and paperwork around and most, if not all of her clothes were usually left at the hotel, regardless of their cost.

Many a maid had found new, unworn designer dresses or hand-made shoes of soft, buttery leather in her wake.

But he – an indoor sort of person, who rarely went outside – did need such a bag. Inside its dark recesses were fake IDs, shirts and a spare pair of pants along with cash. A lot of cash.

Years of handling large stacks of it had given her the ability of quick counting and handling of money. Within the minute, she had the paper rectangles arranged in a pyramid on the futon placed at the end of the bed. Henry had kept three quarters of a million sterling in a duffle bag under his bed.

She almost laughed. She would have, if it hadn't been so tragic. He never managed to spend it or give it away and now, never will.

Saved it maybe? For his daughter or granddaughter? She passed her fingertips over the bills with the same rush she always felt around large piles of the stuff, but no matter her sentiment for money (she liked _loads_ of it), somehow she couldn't bear spending it. It was starting off as an odd trend…first refusing Mycroft's money, then not wanting to spend this…

She tossed all the cash back in the bag and kicked it under the bed. She'd figure out what to do with it. Money was her life. Then she'd ordered breakfast in her room, not having the desire to go down to the Winter Garden: freshly squeezed orange juice, buttermilk pancakes with whipped cream and pecans, freshly baked Danish pastries and a large, mocha with whipped cream, chocolate flakes and cinnamon.

It was still early. She had no pressing matter to attend to, and as per usual with people who always had to race from place to place, she had no idea what to do with her time.

She got dressed, sniffing the clothes beforehand. They smelled of alcohol and cheap pub, tobacco and herself, and she knew that she had to buy more clothes than the one extra outfit she came to London with. Then she took to comb her hair and finally braided it. She felt like going insane, until the phone rang at the same time as room service knocked at the door.

She answered, opening the door and indicating the table then tipped well while the voice at the other end of the line spoke in short, clipped sentences.

She lit a cigarette and poured some scotch she'd bought the previous day while listening.

"I'll be right there" she said and hung up. Then she knocked back the glass of scotch, put out the cigarette and ran to get a cab, breakfast forgotten.

* * *

Lewis sat, huddled in a corner of the sofa, drinking a mug of hot coffee with both hands, like a poor, mistreated child. Hungover, tired, sore and despite himself, still panicking. The pain in his head seemed to be moving around and he turned his head like an owl, trying to shift it back.

The kid talking didn't help. Good God, it didn't help. He was going through a detailed and fascinating history – he was sure – of all the interesting items in his house. Interesting to him, that is.

The place was wrecked. It was the place where junk came to die. The house seemed like it would burst at the seams with all the things that were inside of it. A fishbowl held numerous photographic films (he hadn't even known those still existed), a CRT television was filled with what appeared to be socks and a palm tree was growing, merrily, inside an upside down old diver's helmet.

A palm tree.

In London.

"Are you listening?" the kid asked, without a hint of frustration or anger, just apparently, quite unaccustomed to having someone to listen to.

_Little wonder…_ Lewis thought, but nodded along, _gently_, so as to not upset his headache. "Yeah, yeah, I'm listening" he hid his mouth behind the mug. "Just trying really _really _hard not to" he muttered to himself.

When someone rang the doorbell, it felt as though Big Ben had snuck inside his head and started ringing. He'd hidden inside the belfry once. When it was quiet, he swore that he could still hear it ringing.

The kid ran to the door with an excitement akin to a dog whose owner had been away and Lewis…Lewis didn't know if he should have be excited that the attention was going to be off him for a bit or if he was dreading facing Snake again.

He simply focused on trying to find a position that didn't bring pain to him anymore.

And then the kid's voice came back, even louder than before, spouting words faster than they could form, ending up with a mash of intertwining words. If his face didn't hurt, he might have even smiled at Snake's bewildered expression.

"- ever since the rumours of Chicago I've always wanted to meet you!" the kid ended the speech, taking gulps of air.

"It's …great to meet you too, kid" she muttered and looked him over. "Hungover?"

Lewis nodded slowly. "I'm pretty sure my headache woke me up this morning"

"That's not a good sign" but she grinned anyway. Happy at his discomfort, he knew. "Some people have coffee, others have tea. I have scotch" she'd once told him at some get together a thief had arranged after fencing off a particularly intriguing set of diamonds. "If I don't have a hangover and a serious dehydration problem, I get melancholic. Give me a healthy headache, some ungodly desire for greasy food and maybe a joint and I'll be happy for the rest of the week. I really don't see how the experience could even compare to an Earl Grey…"

"No, what's not a good sign is that I constantly hear sloshing" he moved his head to the left. "I think I liquefied my brain"

"Would you like another cup of coffee?" the kid offered.

"Yes. Please"

"Oh, erm, can I get you one? I can make mocha, espresso, cappuccino, anything you like!" he addressed Snake.

"Black coffee is fine. I've only had a scotch this morning" she said, stripping off her long coat and tossing it over a small table whose base was a tree.

"Erm, alright. Black it is" and he moved so fast he almost teleported through a door made out of tree bark. She stared at it for a moment before shaking her head.

"I think he's got a crush on you, Snake" Lewis smirked and groaned when she plopped on the couch with a maximum amount of movement and his brain sloshed a bit more.

"Because I need the attentions of a kid right now"

"I think he's older than you"

She glared, searching through her pockets. "Well, who isn't, in this business?" she found a brand new pack of cigarettes, which she tore open. "So what happened? Why did you call?"

"The kid learned something. I don't know. Something with maps and…something" he muttered and put his mug on the trunk that served as an end table by the couch. "He's been talking so much I don't know what he's saying anymore. Apparently Ed was training him up to…take his place? Take a fall?"

"Ed wouldn't have let someone else take the fall for anything" she lit the cigarette and puffed in thought. "Then again, training a kid doesn't sound like something he'd do either"

"Kind of late to consider it, isn't it?" he groaned and tightened his jacket around himself better, and watched the smoke wafts take to the ceiling. "I'm never drinking again"

"I hear that every day" she blew rings of smoke that took to the air and turned to the door made out of tree bark when the kid started walked _slowly_ towards them, two mugs filled to the brim in tow. "What's your name, kid?"

"Oh, erm, that's rude of me. I'm…Simon. Simon Masterson. Everyone calls me Pinkie" he stuttered.

She frowned and accepted the drink as Lewis accepted his in a vomit green mug. He looked nauseous just staring at it. "Why?"

"Erm…long story" he evaded, pulling a chair that looked made out of cards.

"Can you start a sentence without saying 'erm' ?" Lewis intervened, irritated.

"Erm…" he flushed and sunk his head into his chest, flustered.

"Kid, Louie said you had something to tell me" Snake intervened, taking a sip of coffee before placing it away and continuing with inhaling out of the cigarette as if it had done something horrible to her.

"Right. Well…erm, you know how Eddie liked to buy places right?" he started, wringing his hands nervously.

"Yeah" Snake tapped her fingers on her leg impatiently. "He rented them out for cons or as places to stay for out-of-towners looking to lay low"

"Yes! Yes" Pinkie shuffled his feet. "Well after doing some time inside, he started getting more and more of them. Places to hide his stashes and stuff"

An odd spark of attention bloomed in Snake's eyes. "Tell me, kid, did he keep the keys in that dreadful bowl by his entrance?"

"Erm…yes?"

A slow smile stretched across her face. "Continue with your point, please"

His eyes were fairly wide and both his hero worship and his complete lack of experience permeated the air like moisture. "Well, he might have stashed some things in one of them to give us – you – a clue for his murderer. Eddie knew everything"

Lewis groaned and Snake blinked. "Good line of thinking" the kid beamed out of every pore. "Slightly off conclusion. There were no keys in his key bowl, killer wanted to lay low…" she let the sentence hang, looking at Pinkie expectantly.

"Oh!" he jumped to his feet. "You think he's hiding in one of Ed's houses!" he grinned for a second, then his expression turned serious. "You think he's hiding in one of Ed's houses?"

"I would" Lewis intervened. "The cops wouldn't know, right? Perfect hiding spot. Not like he expected anyone to go and check the key bowl of all things"

Snake got up and walked to the window, head tilted back. Small gesture of thought, but Lewis felt guilty all over again. Collaborating didn't mean being forgiven for all of his faults and there were plenty. It occurred to him that they'd never worked properly together. He never worked with anyone for a long term. Informers rarely did.

Casual threats and dangers, those happened often. Trying to atone for badly offered information was not something to do twice. Good informers didn't even have to do it once.

He was grateful just for the opportunity.

"Want me to check out the spots?" he offered in a genuinely first attempt at delicacy and care.

She tossed him a look. "Yes, because you're exceptionally well equipped, mentally and practically, to deal with a serial killer and possible bodies in his house, hidden away…" she started smirking. "In places where you can see them…"

He glared.

"I'll deal with it" she shook her head and turned to Pinkie. "Can I get the addresses, please?"

"I've got one better" he jumped across the room and looked between the books on a bookshelf shaped in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of a spider's web. He pulled the map out and surrendered it to her.

Snake spread it until it was the size of a large towel, overshadowing her torso and looked it over. "Louie…I might take you up on your offer anyway" she muttered.

"Why?"

She set the entire piece of paper on the antique walnut desk and spread her hands over it. Tiny red circles had fallen onto Greater London like a bad case of the measles. All three stared at it with an expression bordering from Lewis's disillusion to Pinkie's panic.

"Those are a lot of doors to unlock…" Snake deadpanned, blowing smoke.

"Must have cost a fortune to get, too" Lewis remarked.

"Well, yes. But the point is that he could hide a lot of things from, well…everyone" Pinkie commented, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Glad he thought of everything, then" the informer muttered, displeased. "But how are we going to know which one he's in. Look at these. They're spread all over London. Is that…is that one _inside _the National Gallery?"

Pinkie squinted. "Erm…Sorry. Smudge" he rubbed the spot with his thumb.

"Well, there goes _one_ of them" she muttered. "Just a thousand more to go"

"We'll help you. Erm…I'm sure there's loads of people we can call to help" the kid said, despite being able to think of none.

"No" Snake growled. "We can't exactly trust a lot of people, now can we? Bloody hell, even if we could, they'd probably be moronic enough to spill it to the wrong person" for a moment her eyes fell on Louie and he looked down. "Or even worse. Get themselves killed"

She grabbed her coat quickly, tossing the cigarette pack inside. "I'll deal with it. You two stay together. If anything happens, I'll call you"

"Are you sure?" Pinkie asked, uneasily. "That would be…"

"Suicidal?" she grinned carelessly. "Welcome to the job, kid. You sure you're up for it?"

* * *

"Did you find anything?" John, bored and a little numb, asked Sherlock who was reading a case file with an interested eye. Sergeant Donovan had gone for coffee and though other officers had walked close to the door, none had entered.

"I'm not sure" he replied.

His pile of cases with potential implications was inexistent. He had considered none of them to be relevant or interesting or even particularly difficult. He, in fact, was anticipating some sort of murder file.

The one that had caught his eye, however, was not one of violent death. It was quickly gutted open on his side of the table, photographs, reports and notes spread strategically.

The little girl in the picture was smiling widely and was all dressed in pink. Strawberry blonde curls framed her chubby little face and vivid blue eyes were gleefully watching the photographer. The report was one of missing persons, filed three months back.

Sherlock recognized the date. There had been posters and searches but nothing had turned up. At least not at first. It was presumed that she had skipped school with the intention of running away.

Dredging up the Thames had resulted in a body, two weeks after the disappearance, at a point where no one had had any hope left. The family had asked for it to be a non-disclosed event that was not reported in newspapers or television news and being fairly affluent, the fact had remained a secret.

His eyes skimmed the conclusions of the file.

It was an extremely simple one that involved climbing up the edges of the bridge and drowning. The picture that accompanied that final report showed the dead body, blue and bloated, dressed in filthy pink. The large backpack had probably just dragged her down.

There were no reasons to suspect foul play or some other illegality. Written in faded pencil, on the corner of a piece of paper was the number of another report.

He dived in the mess of papers for it, while John looked at the photograph.

"That's sad, isn't it? I wonder how no one noticed when she fell"

Sherlock shook his hand, dismissing the thought. He had found the file.

It was a murder case, of a man suspected of small time crimes –mainly racketeering. He had died – multiple stab wounds – while putting his cat out for the night. The murderer had never been found and there were few suspects. None investigated past the first interrogation. It was classified as a random attack being as how he lived in a bad neighbourhood where drug-related attacks and assaults happened with alarming frequency.

Sherlock let his head hang back. It was inconsistent. That type of crime with lack of evidence…

It seemed unplanned, messy, easy. Even the police department couldn't have botched that one and yet, _no evidence_…

At all.

The only thing that connected those two files, those two cases, was the number written in pencil. Something Sergeant David Reynolds has thought about. Something he had suspected.

"Lestrade!" he shouted, jumping out of his chair. John flinched.

"_Lestrade!_" he tore open the door and shouted down the hall.

"What!?" the man ran over. "What is it?"

"This file" Sherlock held up the murder report and that one" He pointed at the table. "What's the connection between them?"

Lestrade took the file in his hand and gave it a look, then checked the other one. "There is no connection" he answered, as if it was plain to see.

"Of course there's a connection" Sherlock tapped the number in pencil. "Your Sergeant thought of it. Now what is it?"

"Oh, that. That was just Reynolds's theory. It didn't check out. Seeing as how the parents were wealthy and this guy-" he tapped the picture of the small-time crook "-was suspected of racketeering in the area, he thought it was a kidnapping and later, after the body was found, a botched one. There was no evidence to support it and since he was found dead, the case was closed. He wasn't even called for questioning" Lestrade explained.

He paused and looked at the consulting detective carefully. "You're not thinking that this is why he was killed, are you?"

"I'm thinking-" his phone rang. He quickly took it out of his pocket and read the text, then pounced on the table and took the files. "John, come on. I'm taking these files. You don't mind, do you?" he asked and was out the door before Lestrade could answer.

"Wait, where are you going? And what are we supposed to do?" the DI asked, watching as he was already almost out of view.

Sherlock stopped and tossed over his shoulder. "Keep reading the files!"

"…Great" he muttered, left behind in the room full of paper. "Just great"


	11. Chapter 11

**Tag**

* * *

"_Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you" ~ Satchel Paige_

* * *

The day the noises stopped was the day he'd lost most of himself.

Everyone has that little whisper in his head. It reminded you of things and kept telling you of right and wrong. Sometimes it's the same voice you read in, sometimes it sang the songs you couldn't get out of your head.

It was gone the day his hands touched another's blood for the first time.

The silence was deafening: a silence that came from the inside and overcame the sounds of people or cars that others found so loud.

He'd been awfully alone since it was gone and there were no hints of it coming back. It was as if there was a little switch inside his mind, only instead of turning something on, it turned something off. A little light, maybe. The kind that you can only see in someone's eyes.

He was staring at the empty inbox. If he unfocused his eyes just so, he could see himself in the screen. His beard had grown patchy and uneven, his hair was shaggy, his eyes were red-rimmed and baggy and dull, so dull they looked like marbles set too deep into his skull.

Still he smiled. His lips cracked and blood begun to well up in the small cracks like water in a desert wasteland. He'd been smiling a lot since the noises had stopped.

Then he started gathering what he thought he needed.

His empty inbox was a sign. Maybe everything was a sign. He'd hated the place. He hated London. He hated the dirty streets, the filth, the loud music, the weird feeling of danger in certain boroughs. What must be like to grow up in a place like this, he thought to himself. How horrifying was it that he had lived here.

If everything was a sign, then it meant that his story was starting to form, gaining substance and form like coagulating blood.

He started to laugh by the time he closed the lights and shut the door.

* * *

It had been an odd day. The sky, dark as a funeral shroud was Damocles' sword to Londoners, the threat being not death but rain. The air was refreshingly clear of the smell of awful coffee and furtively smoked cigarettes. And it was especially, blessedly free of the smell of old, mouldy paper and dust. John barely had time to inhale deeply of it before they were set upon by an impatient Milo, who twirled between the people walking in a way opposite to her and faced them.

Except that, it wasn't as much impatience that John could see. She looked agitated, her eyes darted from place to place and her fingers twitched around one strand of loose hair. She looked as if enemies were about to come out from the woodwork, screaming and shooting. He wouldn't have even noticed had the symptoms been less familiar.

No doubt that Sherlock had noticed them as well, though he seemed oddly quiet.

"I hope you two had fun. It must have been some party" she tiptoed to reach up and dust off Sherlock's hair. He waved off her hand and took it upon himself to clean it.

"Reading dusty criminal files is the greatest joy of my life" John deadpanned. "Where were you?"

"Oh, I can't walk into a police station. I'll burst into hives" she shuddered theatrically, while managing remarkably at dodging oncoming pedestrians without actually seeing them coming. "Besides, what sort of reputation would that get me?"

"A respectable one?" the doctor quipped.

"A horrifying thought" she rebutted.

The tension eased slowly and visibly from her and themselves, whether they noticed it or not as each was gauging out a café or restaurant that was empty enough to have a private discussion in. The area was very much central London and a common place for flocks and flocks of tourists. Red brick buildings, garishly painted taverns, brightly coloured flowers hanging at the seams of the building composed images of an urban aesthetic, one that seemed universally tied to the UK. Tables seemed abandoned just outside, cramped and sort of in the way yet occupied at almost any hour.

Space was costly in the big city and owners were always trying to make the best of it, shoving furniture inside the room until you could clearly hear what the gentleman four tables down was saying and quip some useful advice. Some had a sort of naïve charm, with adorned windows and doors with coloured glass that seemed made for children or the very young, others took the opposite approach until the establishment looked like something out of a Victorian catalogue.

London was a city that despised its tourists as much as it needed them, just like Londoners, and it was never quite as obvious as in the centre of it. It did seem that every single public space was dedicated to them and in a place where everything had a theme, exorbitant prices and twelve other, unwanted, guests right by the table, she just wanted a place where she could have a cheap drink in a cheap chair, in peace.

Sherlock was the one to take the lead, heading into an alley and then holding the door open to a small place with booths across the wall and a suspicious lack of customers inside of it. Milo snaked her way through without as much as a side glance to the location, followed by John who'd been eyeing the slightly grimy windows with a slight suspicion.

He felt it was somewhat out of character for both of them to walk into such a place, however he did know that Sherlock had dived into bins for the pink luggage so he probably had no aversion to anything while on a case. And he personally had eaten in far worse conditions, ate food that had tasted suspiciously like dirt and had coffee he was fairly sure was thin motor oil, so he didn't comment against it.

The booth they ducked into had a table covered in a red square pattern, like a forgotten picnic cloth and the small sofas were surprisingly squishy.

The only thing that place had was privacy – perhaps too much, if the owner had a say – and it was hard to believe that the place was there, between the Thames and Buckingham Palace, renowned tourist haven, even if it was located in the cramped alley.

She pushed the menu away, disinterested in tea as a general principle and John was the only one to get anything.

Tea, two sugars.

For some reason, she memorized that certain preference in a small corner of her mind. When the waitress/barista came to bring it, she tossed a couple of fifties on the table and held up her cigarette pack. The toss was casual and it spoke of a certain confidence, which was what she aimed for. The looking in the eye and a small, impish smile was friendly and suggested nothing but an addiction and an inclination for mischief.

"To smoke?"

Her tone fit her little act and the woman looked towards the door quickly, confirming the lack of customers to herself and then nodded back at her. "Alright then, yeah" she nodded and pocketed the cash.

As soon as she turned and walked back to the counter, the act fell and Milo lit a cigarette and opened the file with a dour expression.

"It's a dead kid" she said, as if she'd expected something more interesting, not even bothering to read the whole story.

"I was hoping for something more intuitive, but at the very least it proves that there's nothing wrong with your eyesight" Sherlock stated.

Unaffected, she rose an eyebrow. "Seriously, it's a dead kid. What gives?"

"Turn to the other page" he indicated and settled on his own analysis.

She gave a sigh worthy of a martyr and leaned back, the couch making disturbingly squeaky sounds. She isolated the photographs and set them aside on the table, then squinted at the papers. That was what he wanted to see. The signs that she needed glasses but refused to wear them weren't there. Her eyes did not gradually adjust to the difficulty of reading. The tendency to push the paper back wasn't there, though she did follow the written lines with her fingers, without realizing it. The dilatation of her eyes, fairly evident on light coloured eyes, was appropriate for the level of light in the room.

She read it fairly quickly as well, without stops to rest her eyes, before looking up.

"I still don't get it" she lit a cigarette and leaned back. "Stabbed twelve times. That must be a workout for the old muscles" she muttered. "Suspected of small-time racketeering and working for a bigger operation? Huh. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Just walk me through"

"It's a murder of a suspected criminal in the proper appropriate time limit without it being classified as solved or without any indication of a suspect" he started.

"Wait, you had an appropriate time limit? Why did you have us look at all the files, then?" John glared, without much force behind it.

"I suspected a time limit. I could have been wrong" he stated it in an off-handed manner. "He could have been in prison or out of the country and only take action now. This is more probable"

She frowned in thought and looked at the picture of the man. She didn't read his name and hardly wanted it. There were too many names swimming in her head already.

"Know him?" John pointed with his spoon.

She put the picture down and looked at him with a condescending expression. "Why would you assume I know every small-time crook in London? It's not like we have a newsletter" she took his napkin and dropped the ash in it. "Alright. Let me see…if he was racketeering in the area, and I'm not saying he was considering the small amount of evidence against him that the cops gathered" she shrugged. "Well…how can I put this? People would have seen his face. He was either pretty new at this, really uncaring about his position which is fairly unlikely given that the cops were watching him or someone's footman, as clearly written here. But as a footman, this would have gotten more attention"

"The other files were robbery or assault. At least the ones I've read" John said, momentarily forgetting the tea and twirling the cup in his mug.

"Do you believe it's _coincidence_" he said the word in a mocking tone "that there was one more criminal dead in the span of three months and that the very officer who investigated it ended up shot?"

She paused, cigarette half-way to her mouth. "I don't believe in coincidences"

Sherlock seemed oddly satisfied with the fact.

"And on that note" she continued and put the cigarette to her lips to pull out the map and spread it on the table. "Ed held a series of hidden spots for the man on the run. Usually a safe-keep for himself, but he was known to rent them out. The keys…"

"Were kept in the bowl on the table"

She grinned at him with genuine delight. "So it's fairly safe to say he took them. There are a lot of places to check, but it's fairly safe to say we can exclude outward boroughs and warehouses. What did you find inside the coffee cup?" she tossed the last question with the same tone and his face showed no change.

"Polyethylene Glycol" he answered shortly, as it was the point of interest.

Of course, there was a decidedly odd cocktail that Sherlock had found. Propylene Glycol, Boric Acid, Potassium Chloride and many more, that he'd found no connection between. John had been the one to determine that the only composition he knew with that specific mixture was for fairly expensive eye drops, commonly used by contact lens wearers to lubricate their dry eyes.

It also determined, in a single shot, that the man had no medical experience. Ingested eye drops caused enough problems from breathing difficulty to heart problems to possible death depending on the amount.

She nodded, knowing the term.

"What is this?" the woman from the counter exclaimed, coming over to take John's tea and witnessing the morbid display of crime-scene pictures. "This is a café! People come here to drink coffee or eat! You can't have these here, no matter who you are! What is wrong with you people?!" she looked horrified.

"Well, time to go" Milo muttered, cleaning the gory display. It was when they were out of the café that she started laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

* * *

Two grown men, alone, watching 'Doctor Zhivago' was not the sort of party Lewis liked attending. There was a poignant lack of anything alcoholic, anything female, anything fun. He liked music, cheerful screams and all things loud, sounds which were reduced to Pinkie's chewing.

He, apparently, liked quiet bonding time, staring at the screen carefully, making appropriate commentary upon the hidden nature of the film (which Lewis thought was just a flick designed to make women cry) and enjoyed the large amount of buttery popcorn. He had taken to heart Snake's command and was content on staying safely locked inside his house. Something Lewis would have generally been alright with.

No one had ever asked Lewis to be brave. He didn't need to be. He was fairly aware of the fact that his job could be made from behind a computer or in a pub and that after he was done, other people would be handling the risks. He simply learned of the tales, later, from a distance, in a cushy chair with a lager in front of him.

No, the job description had never included 'brave', 'adventurous' or even 'hardy'. The only thing 'hardy' about him, in fact, was his drinking but the same could be said for all his other alcoholic mates who spent their nights thinking up odd ways of getting rich on someone else's dime.

It was the first time he felt unhappy about his position as a bystander. Him and his leather jackets and indoor sunglasses and occasional goatee (which Ed had once informed him was never cool) had always figured themselves front centre, daring, outside the law. He constantly rubbed elbows with criminals and kept away from the police. So why did he feel insignificant?

In a small amount it might have been due to Pinkie. The man had a sort of presence that made drug-filled, bondage orgies feel mundane.

But he knew that the amount of guilt he was feeling wasn't only due to the skinny little man sharing a couch with him. He usually wasn't aware of the consequences of his actions. He sold the information. If someone died and sometimes they did, it was solely their fault. He'd started to wonder how many people died because of him. Innocent people, not just those after a quick quid or a thrill.

He hadn't shared everything, either. Whether it was out of fear of or for Snake, he had kept facts.

Suddenly he got up. He didn't have time to think, which was perfect because he didn't want to. His brain hadn't caught up with the his muscles. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

"Where are you going? Snake said to stay put!" the kid yelled after him and paused the movie before following him.

"Yeah, well I can't stay here any longer. You can stay put. Find her a place to live if you want to be useful. I'm going out"

He slammed the door on his way out and breathed the cold air. A coward he may have been, but he wasn't going to be an inactive one.

* * *

They were standing in front of a raggedy door, painted repeatedly in the same sickly green colour that had peeled off just as many times under the stairs to the upper floors. The marks on the door and on the ground indicated it having been open quite a lot of times in the past days when the soil was both softer and less flat and the bottom of said door was frayed and decaying.

It hadn't taken them long to estimate the proper location. John had taken to setting marks on the map, as he had seen many times though for a different purpose. Both Sherlock and Milo strategically eliminated locations based on theory, knowledge of the area and – whether they liked it or not – guesswork. Circles marked the crime scenes, not including the one in the folders, but keeping it in mind. Wherever the circles intersected, the probability of a static location increased. Until they had gotten to that door.

"Allow me" Milo muttered and caressed the lock gently with her fingertips. A thin splinter stung her finger. It was a simple lock, a sad state of a lock that Milo could have forced in a few seconds with a kitchen knife. She didn't need her precision lock picks, just a thin implement and she produced a small ceramic stiletto out of apparently thin air. She pressed it to the large lock and twisted it carefully. It was an ancient lock with rudimentary purpose perfect for a diary or wardrobe, but less useful on a door.

Had she been a less patient individual or had the two men with her decided to assert their masculinity, the door could have been brought down with one swift kick. The wood was already splintered and hanging against the hinges in a way that evoked pity.

She began to wonder if they'd been correct after all, when a dusty click indicated that the lock had opened. She paused, just for a second, hand cradling the doorknob, trying to prepare herself for either a murderer or just an ordinary man. She feared the latter more than the former.

Disliking the delay, Sherlock took her hand off the knob and walked right in. She and John entered at the same time with a greater amount of caution.

It was a single room with a closet for a bathroom, visible through the few strands of light that came in from the door behind them. Milo was riffling through her pockets for her cell phone when Sherlock had found the light switch.

It lit one lamp and one bare light bulb on the ceiling. The light was bright enough to see by, yet dim enough to hurt the eyes.

Milo crouched on the floor, by marks on the carpet. They were deep enough to determine the fact that it had been used extensively once upon a time, but faded enough to ensure her that the only reason Eddie had had it was for its history. She grinned to herself with the discovery that Ed had found an old smuggling den. He would have definitely liked the idea of it if not the bragging rights.

It was only useful for that, she concluded. The humidity in the air would have ruined most drugs or coins and utterly destroyed paintings, the location was painfully difficult to unload in and out of and the space was so small it could have only held small to medium items and even those with great care.

Sherlock upturned the trashcan on the floor and started riffling through it. "He stayed here for almost two weeks" he held up a torn newspaper page with the oldest date he could find.

"Fits the time I suppose" she muttered, turning away from the marks and taking the less intrusive approach to investigating. There was a mattress in the corner stripped of sheets or pillows, a couch that looked mouldy and various solid oak furniture – once majestic and boldly carved – that had fallen prey to bugs, water, misuse and time. Throughout the years, dust had created a thick crust over the pieces and into the encrustations.

The detective had taken to systematically dissect the contents of the desk, something that Milo stayed away from. She entered the small bathroom where her eyes met a broken mirror. It seemed as if it had been punched, shards fallen here and there without being cleaned up. Small drops of blood were by the sink, mixed with dirty water. If time permitted, one could tell the entire story of the man's life just from the state of that bathroom.

How many people punched a mirror without having some sort of deep-seated resentment issues directed at themselves? She stepped back to the doorway to avoid stepping on stray shards and hear the crunching sound of glass rupturing.

"Sherlock…" John could be heard saying and she turned around to see the man move to a pile of dropped papers on the floor, which had apparently fallen when John pulled out a book. He could have made quite a career as either a sprinter or a thief, she thought to herself. That sort of agile motion was only possible with either a great deal of affected passion or fear of authorities.

He looked at what looked like a photograph and then at her. Feeling distinctively involved in whatever it was that he was seeing, she stepped closer to take a look.

A strangled 'oh god' forced herself out of her throat.

At first, when breaking in, she'd been worried about either finding the man at home or finding body parts and skin hanging off the walls and ceiling like some sort of shrine dedicated to his self-importance and purpose. She would have preferred that now.

The face in the photograph was her own, smirk ever present, eyes peaking from behind dark sunglasses and hair looking as if it hadn't been combed in a year _and_ lost a battle to the elements, but her own nonetheless. She knelt and started rifling through them, pushing the newspaper articles about the murders to Sherlock and keeping the photographs to herself.

There were over six pictures of herself, in different poses, moods and get-ups. There were more of them than she usually posed for in a year. When her set was over, Henry's began, or rather, Henry's picture, alone and blurry, as if taken in a rush, was mixed between sets. Then the druggy nurse's set, then the cop. Ed's was absent. As if set aside, at the back of the pile was one she was amused to find.

She held it up for the two to see. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were first eating in a dinner, then walking down the street, then sitting with her at the café.

"Were we being followed by a serial killer?" John said with much more surprise in his tone than outright fear or shock and it made her smile.

"Apparently so" Sherlock said without much emotion in his voice. He stated a fact, with the same removed interest one reads and discuses dissertations.

John took the picture from between her fingers and looked at it better, his eyebrows raised appreciatively. "Well, at least he caught my good side"

She snorted. "Want to frame it?"

"Oh, no. It is entirely at the wrong perspective"

Sherlock Holmes, photographic art critic.

She dumped the rest of the pictures down and looked at the rest of the meagre shelf. At the end of it, placed as if out of reach from the bad influences, were several Maths manuals. They were cared for and set a distance away from the wall where they could have been affected by mould.

A particular dedication caught her eye.

"Well, Sherlock, it appears you have much better instincts than I do" she held the book open for him to see.

"Tell me that he wasn't a Maths teacher" John muttered.

"It makes sense I think. I never met a sane one…" Milo pondered. "Oh, no, wait. That was chemistry"

She handed the book roughly to him when her phone began to ring. She fumbled with it the way you do when you're in too much of a hurry and answered at the final ring.

"Yes?"

"Lewis is gone" said the voice at the other end, panic spreading across the line.

"What?" she snapped. "Where?"

"I don't know. He didn't say"

She nearly screamed in frustration when Pinkie began talking again. "But I did find his smartphone. He forgot it at my place. I cracked the password on it and found an address he'd marked. I'm looking for what's on it now"

"What's the address?"

"E15 1BB"

"That's the Great Eastern Road" she muttered and caught Sherlock's eye. He handed her a small black business card he'd dug out of the papers on the ground, with clear white writing on it.

'_Stratford Multi-Storey Car Park, Great Eastern Road, Stratford, London. E15 1BB'_

She let the phone slip out of her hand.

"Oh, crap"


	12. Chapter 12

**Conquest of the Empire**

* * *

"_Crime is common. Logic is rare" ~ Sherlock Holmes, 'The Adventures of the Copper Beeches'_

* * *

The rain started just as the cab stopped. The sun had gone down without much fanfare half an hour ago and the lights in the distance painted the smog and the clouds overhead with a sickly yellow.

The multi-storey parking lot was a particularly desolate piece of urban landscape especially at night. A few cars could have been seen, parked on the mass of layered concrete.

John tried to staunch the blood flow with his hands, medical training kicking in before anything else. His thoughts were on the task, mentally ticking off the things he could do with no proper equipment. The name of the game was 'observe and adapt'. He'd used a cloth handkerchief to immobilize the shoulder, a plastic bag to cover the wound and prevent a collapsed lung and finally, he tried to calm him.

The man's eyes kept wondering towards his wound.

"Don't look at that, look at me. _Look at me_. You're going to be fine" he enunciated slowly.

The man had been a dark shape in the distance that took human proportions as they'd gotten closer. The dark puddle surrounding him meant there was no mistake in recognizing what had happened.

His face was a featureless porcelain mask, closed eyes, mouth thinned to almost non-existence due to pain. His hands had gripped his shoulder in an arthritic manner. He didn't breathe, he wheezed. Clammy, pale skin and thready pulse indicated signs of shock. He needed to go to the hospital, as fast as possible despite his resistance. Sherlock and Milo had ran past him after mild directions, as if he was nothing, but John felt like he couldn't do that.

"Come on, stay with me" he whispered, still desperatly trying to quell the blood flow.

* * *

The sounds were everywhere and nowhere at once, not centred to his ears but rather resonating into his every cell. Footsteps. A fevered, twisting nausea had snaked into his body, coiled around his stomach. He wanted to scream in frustration, he wanted to kill, he wanted to be back in his bed, he wanted a shower. A thin sheen of sweat coaled his body and his feet stumbled forward.

He tried to steel himself. _No more, it has to end, it has to stop._

But if shaking off his pursuers wasn't possible…

* * *

Sherlock rushed up the slope to a higher floor of the multi-storey parking lot, hit with lightning-fast thoughts that considered their situation; the thief and the murderer were in the same building as he and neither could be trusted. It had ended too fast and too sudden with no trustworthy source to it.

Most of all, at the back of his mind was the report of the man, stabbed to death. Then at the police officer who had trusted the murderer enough to try and let him into his home. The escalation had been far too drastic, far too quickly. A man like that…could not be reasoned with. Could not even think properly.

Serial killers were always the fun ones when they still had their wits about them. When they thought about their steps. When they did not and lost that sort of rational train of thought, then they began to be truly dangerous. And though this one had started on that journey, there was something awfully organized seeded inside his actions…

He could not hear footsteps or voices, so he continued to run upwards.

He wanted to be the first, if only for answers.

* * *

Milo looked down into the gun's barrel. The smell of gunpowder made her nose itch. She could taste it.

Dangerous, stupid and thoughtless…and so utterly thrilling. You could prepare for everything and anything on a job but it was a certainty that something would go wrong. Liking or hating that moment defined the rest of a grifter's career.

They'd split up like teenagers in a horror film except, they both wanted to find the murder instead of running away from him. She had to find him first… because she was sure that either of the men would spare him. With John carrying for that fool, Lewis, the worry had waned slightly, but Sherlock was not someone she considered predictable.

Besides, he had been so easy to find. It had been good practice.

Those who said people were unique little snowflakes probably hadn't met a lot of them. Snowflakes were all little drops of water at their core and freezing didn't make them any different from their beginnings in essential ways.

Besides, had anyone ever checked the snowflakes for geometrical diversity? Compared the ones that fell in Sapporo to the ones in Reykjavik and issue a hypothesis? Hardly.

Milo knew people and people were stupid under stress and adrenaline. She knew this because adrenaline was running through her at that very moment and not sleeping or eating in the past days along with her general anxiety certainly counted as stress.

His hand was trembling subtly, but his trigger finger was still and that was what mattered. The bloodshot eyes, sunken deep into his skull, the greasy hair and the matted beard did nothing for him. He did not look insane as much as he did lost, perhaps homeless. The sort of jittery instability wasn't there and for a moment, in the right combination of light and shadow, he looked sad.

"You're not wearing a bullet proof jacket now. Thought I shouldn't have had to kill you" he shrugged. "It's too late now"

"You didn't?" she answered airily and reached into the pocket. She held her hands clearly in view as she extracted a cigarette. Her habit was going to be the death of her, but not that day. Being threatened by madmen with guns was reaching into her usual behaviour. "Why shouldn't you have killed _me_? I'm worse than all of your other victims"

"_Victims!_ They weren't victims!" he said through clenched teeth. "They were criminals. All of them. The world is better off without them"

It felt like she'd stopped thinking altogether, before it coming back, rushing into one fully rounded theory. She never knew how to put it into words, but the knowledge was firmly in her head. Expressions and gestures betrayed so much. And people's emotions ran so wild…

In a certain way, she was like a doctor. All she did was push in the different spots and watch for signs of pain. And where there were signs, that's where she pushed some more.

"Still. Why them" she took a step forward. "And not me?"

His eyes took on a calculated expression and she thought she'd botched it until he took a step back. "I pity you"

Her eyebrows rose just a bit as her footsteps faltered. "You pity me? _You_?"

"You were born knowing that your brain was broken, weren't you?"

Her blank expression faltered for a fraction of a second. Did she hear him right or was it just something she thought she heard? It was a bold thing to say, nonetheless and even if he knew …something, it still put him on the offensive.

"What's the name of it?" he turned his head like a dog and the little measure of sympathy she felt was lost. "What was the name…"

"Low Latent Inhibition" she answered with a calm smile, teetering on motherly. She took a deep breath of her cigarette smoke and waited.

"Yes!" he jumped. "Very, very low. How was it explained to me?" he muttered. "It's like having the entire universe inside your head"

"Aren't you lucky, then. Most people hardly know what it is. Who explained it to you?" she asked.

"I researched it!" he smiled proudly. "You aren't as well hidden as you'd like to think"

She laughed. "Yes, I am. I devoted my entire life to it. So, who was it? I'd love to have a chat"

He stayed stubbornly silent, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.

"All right. So you researched my life. I hope it was an interesting story. Now how about I tell you yours?" she smiled coolly.

He frowned. His façade split for just a moment and that was enough to go by.

"You felt …hmm…responsible? You were supposed to take care of all of your students and you failed"

He inhaled sharply. Didn't like to be faced with his failings…that was useful.

"You probably joined every search, put up so many posters…" she shook her head. "But it was all for naught. You were looking for her long after everyone else had given up hope. And the parents were too grief-stricken to share everything with you because you were _nobody"_

His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed, so she smiled maliciously and started walking slowly towards him again. "So you heard that the police suspected a small-time crook. That he _knew_ something because he had connections. When he wasn't even taken into custody, you thought that the cop had been bought off"

"He was!" the man nearly screamed and the hand holding the gun started to shake a lot more violently.

"Beg to disagree. He wasn't anything" she said, not a lie, merely truth by lack of evidence. " The police place him in a bar at the exact time of the disappeared" she finally lied. "He might have been a weird little man with a cat. And…your little girl? She fell into the Thames and drowned. The cops found the body. An open and shut case. Simple and without any implications"

"You're lying!" he shouted, putting his finger on the trigger. "You can't prove that!"

She tossed out the photos of the dead body between them. "Yeah, I sort of can. See her? Drowned"

To anyone witnessing, Milo would have seemed insane. But what she was, was a gambler. Chance thrilled her. Losing excited her. And death was always just a few rolls of the dice away so why fear it? It was, after all, the ultimate gamble.

She started to count on the fingers of one hand. "You killed one innocent cat-loving man. A police officer who'd only wanted to help you, even confided in you with details of the case. What did you think? That he was arrogant? That he lied to your face about what happened?" she grinned and pressed on as his hand wavered. "A so-called crook who'd never done anything because…you needed a hide-out? Did he refuse to help you? Oh my. Selfish of him. Why he almost deserved the bullet" she mocked. "Then there was a nurse who was trying to ease her patients into a lot less painless existence, drugs or no. An old man…A sweet old grandpa, whose own child will mourn…because of you"

Her smile faded. His face was flush and gaunt at the same time. His eyes seemed weak; more needy. He looked like a giant about to crumble.

"You're a monster" she whispered, because a whisper was more threatening than a shout. "You're the one who shouldn't have ever been allowed near children"

She took another step forward and her voice lowered even further. "Maybe it was your fault. Why didn't you take care of her? Am I the only one with the broken brain here? I'll bet not" she turned her head. Slow shifts of expression, self-doubt starting to well like blood from a wound. "I'm bang on, aren't I? You were too busy with breakdowns to ever notice just what every child was doing. Maybe even…" she could read the desperation, easily. "Your own child. How did that one die?"

He had turned white, then red and white again, drips of salty sweat making him look diseased and bloated like the corpse in the picture.

"_You_ should have taken care of them. _You_ should have been more careful. _You_ shouldn't have let them _**die**__"_

A loud bang echoed across the empty space, through the walls, floor and ceiling. When it was over, there was a distinct loudness in the air that had nothing to do with sound.

Milo took the pictures off the ground and pocketed them, and only took a step back so that the blood wouldn't stain the bottom of her boots.

She heard feet crashing against the ground in the distance and she put her hands in her pockets, waiting for the cavalry. For a man who refused to obey social conventions and normal human interactions, Sherlock was quite the chevalier_. _

"In here!" she shouted. The pool of blood was reaching for her almost intentionally…

It was time to go.

* * *

Lestrade had come to collect the body – the last body. Sherlock had shown him the letter he'd received and despite a long trial of interrogations and longer written reports, they'd been let go.

A few tests would have to be done, but the man had killed himself. There was no danger there unless words left visible marks.

What became of the man at the entrance to the parking lot, John didn't know. His body and the pool of blood was gone by the time the police game, in the brief period from Milo exiting the parking lot and telling him to go to the death scene to the moment the police arrived.

"So, is this it?" John asked. The cab was sinuously sliding down the streets towards Baker Street. The sun was soon to dawn.

Sherlock turned to him. "The killer is dead. Seems rather finite to me"

"We hardly know anything about him" John protested.

"We hardly need to. He's dead"

Sherlock turned back to the window.

John turned to his. It seemed like a distinctively incomplete case. Many unanswered questions, far too little known about the killer and there was too much that didn't make sense.

"Why did he kill all those people?" he asked.

"Desperation. Vigilantism. The death of a child can make men do all sorts of things, or so I am told" he waved his hand, as if explaining that it was not a notion familiar to him.

It was an explanation good enough for John at least as far as motivation. And it was over. Loose ends mattered little.

* * *

Out of shock, stable and mildly high from morphine, Liam Anderson had been admitted at St. Bart's Hospital after being found by a one helpful citizen, private doctor Meredith Sanders. First aid having been applied perfectly, no further damage having occurred and having already passed the second peak of death, he was allowed to thank the person who had found him and saved his life after being so awfully mugged by a gang of roving teenagers.

There was no evidence of damage to the vascular structure or the nerves and so, convinced that they would do more harm than good by exploring for it, the doctors had decided to leave the bullet inside. A constant reminder of his stupidity, Dr. Meredith Sanders had told him, in private.

"What were you trying to prove in the first place?" she'd also asked, sitting on his bed in a fake show of concern for the man she saved.

"I wasn't trying to prove anything" Lewis sulked, head lulling about in a drugged daze. "There was never anything to prove"

"You're lying. Don't bother telling me you're not. You've always been too obvious" she deadpanned, playing with the remote. "Why go there?"

"His car" he drooled.

"He had a car there he was going for? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was worried you'd…" he sighed.

His eyes were transfixed by the ceiling. It was hard to tell if it was due to the pain, drugs or sheer stubbornness. Minutes of prying and subtle turns of phrases revealed not only the car and its location but also his fantasies at how the meeting would have gone. Stupid fancies of a man who had never been 'on the field' so to speak. Who hadn't even dreamed that he would get shot.

The police were gone by the time she went to look for the car that no one else knew about. She spent the next two hours looking for it.

She never found it.

* * *

A/N: Such is concluded the first case.

I've read a quote by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which I am paraphrasing, where he stated that the reason he never wrote about the Jack the Ripper murders was because Holmes was someone who interpreted logical facts and minds, not such savage or mad actions. I can't find it again nor acknowledge its veracity, though it does sound fairly accurate.

To those thinking that it was fairly anti-climatic, it was. Are there plot holes? Of course. It's not yet over, although I would be happy if you'd shared your concerns over them. If I had written it exactly as it was planned, I would have still been writing the same story by the time Season 3 would have rolled in, I would have been kicked out of college and gotten blisters on my fingertips. It did achieve its basic goal, which was introducing Milo.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Settlers of Catan**

* * *

"_I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past" ~ Thomas Jefferson_

* * *

_The year was 2001. _

_An old man, beautiful in wrinkles created by laughter, benevolent face and old fashioned clothes was waiting alongside a bald, portly man with stained shirt, sitting on a ragged couch, patched with mismatched fabrics and barely holding it together. _

_They did not speak, for they had other things on their minds. They gave the impression of waiting for someone and indeed, they were. They were convinced something had gone wrong even if neither of them dared say it. _

_When the door opened, they flinched in fear and inklings of paranoid thoughts. _

_A thirteen year old Emilia Rivers walked through the door, gracefully and youthfully, with confident steps. At that age, she was but a sliver of a child, skinny and short, looking like both a young boy and girl depending on the clothes. The only thing feminine about her was her very long hair __knotted harshly underneath a large face-hiding hood…_

_This sort of appearance would persist, much to her displeasure and disadvantage, until at least her eighteenth summer._

_She extended her arm and dropped a duffle bag larger than she was, on the table. Eddie jumped on it like a starved man and tore open the zipper. Then he paused and whistled appreciatively. Henry reached with a hesitant hand and stopped just short of touching the bag. _

_The grin on Emilia's face said it all. She was waiting for them to come to their senses and share her happiness. Their hopes and dreams were in that bag. _

"_Millie…you did it" Henry muttered. _

"_I take back everything I said about you, kid" Ed shook his head. _

_She opened the bag all the way and removed as many wads of cash as her small hands could manage, then tossed them at her associates. _

"_We did it" she confirmed, more to herself than the others. Her first long-con, her first scheme, her first large profit…_

_ I__t was the first for all of them, but it had been her plan. An old geezer, a child and a stupid hard-hat…brought together on one single criminal job. It was marvelous, it was movie-worthy, it was the one job that had propelled them from nothing to a pedestal, however small. _

_She sat down between them, still staring at the cash reverently. _

"_What do you want to do with your share?" she asked the old man._

_Henry caressed the money, slowly. "Start my own antique shop, maybe at home. And I'll sell to those to whom I want to sell, not because I need the money but because they could take care of the pieces properly __and care for their history_. Maybe start my own little collection" he said, dreaming with eyes wide open at the books and paintings and furniture. 

"_And you?" she asked Ed. _

_He laughed loudly and gleefully like a starving man, suddenly made king, gripping the piles of cash like a drowning man held its rescuer. "Whatever I want, kid. Whatever I want" he paused. "What about you?"_

"_Me?" she whispered. "I want to travel" she stated. "And I want…" she paused. "I want to make more of this" she grasped a fistful of cash._

_Eddie laughed again, throwing his head back and slamming his hand on her shoulder heavily. "With your brains, kid, you'll make millions. You'll be the best grifter in the world! Best thief in the world!"_

_And he laughed again and Emilia found herself giggling beside him. Henry, less delighted, but not willing to ruin their moment simply smiled as if he knew better. _

"_Let's celebrate!" Eddie shouted and got four fifty pound bills. "I'll go buy something to drink and eat. Something amazing. You set the table" he stopped. "No, don't. I'll buy _proper_ cutlery. And some glasses" he put on his coat and asked with a wink. "Kid, you ever had scotch?" _

"_No" she watched him with wide eyes filled with curiosity._

"_You'll love it" he grinned and went out the door, skipping and whistling the whole way._

* * *

There was always a certain calm after the storm.

After the dust settled and the heroes walked into the sunset, the guy got the girl and the villain was punished, there was a certain sense of completion. A sense that was heavily lacking in real life. The villain was not as villainous as he had first seemed, more misguided and mentally ill if anything. Even a bit confused.

No one got the girl as there was no girl to be had. The sunset was far away and the only thing it indicated was another struggle on the horizon.

Henry Gilbert's grave was mourned properly by daughter, son-in-law and nephews.

There had been a large gathering of men and women in black clothes – expensive or otherwise – with sunglasses and bowed heads, most of whom scattered before they could be asked questions. All of their flower bouquets were large bundles of white lilac with sprinkled lilies of the valley. The small plot of land looked as if it had been snowed upon. Most of all, it showed that the man who was to lie there had been appreciated.

Edward Matthews' tomb had severely less prestige or attention dedicated to it, which Milo supposed, was how he would have wanted it. They'd all celebrated with him one time or another in life, which was the only reason Ed needed to celebrate. He'd loved life, its luxuries, its opportunities, even its struggles. It seemed more appropriate to toast a glass of scotch to him, in private, than gather and mourn.

She went to neither of their funerals. Instead, she had hid inside her newly acquired home, a penthouse overlooking Regent's Park and drank the reminder of the whole sordid affair. It was the end of an era.

It was also the end of the last person who had known her real name. That was a reason to start drinking. Or to drink to.

A sense of malaise took her at the idea of seeing another criminal. Her retirement, short as it was, had ended in the worst possible sense. Only those she truly liked and spent her time with knew some of her secrets. The fact that a common murderer she'd never even met before knew one of those secrets had blindsided her.

There was a feeling of betrayal, even if she didn't know who had betrayed her and the idea was making her nauseous. Or perhaps, that could have been simply the six bottles of scotch talking along with three packs of Indonesian-imported kreteks.

She was angry, but she couldn't phone them and start questioning them. It wasn't that sort of anger. This one simmered and steamed against herself most of all.

It was with that sense of distaste towards everything that was normal in her life, starting with her and ending with her acquaintances, that she later found herself at the door of the one thing that came out of her patterns. 221B Baker Street.

Her hands were heavy with tea, donuts and those tiny, fancy pastries people bought for an arm and a leg. It was a bribery of sorts, and after she knocked, she proffered them like an offering with a smile.

"May I come in?"

The door opened wider and she stepped inside.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Blind Game**

* * *

_"What is robbing a bank compared with founding a bank?" ~ Bertolt Brecht_

* * *

It was a conspiracy against the modern man between companies and machines. Between them, they pretended at improving life and helping regular folk. Instead they added unnecessary stress and ate up precious time. It was a proving reminder that computers did not know everything and John's irritation at the machine had not dulled any, even with the trip back and forth from the flat.

It had merely cumulated with his own worries.

He inserted the PIN with a fair more amount of force than it was necessary. He took a deep breath and counted to ten when the plastic bag broke while he shoved in the shopping.

The first thing he saw was the French manicure, delicately completed with a green line. Then the jewellery that dripped from fingers and wrists, emeralds that shared their colour with the satin lining of the black velvet long coat. The silk little black dress underneath made it distractively obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. And hardly needed one. Her necklace was an entire net of emeralds crawling up her throat to be completed by long earrings.

She laughed at his appraisal and his realisation that he had been appraising her and took the task of bagging his groceries into her own hands. The lips were as pale as ever but the eyes were darkly accentuated and her hair was styled in old-fashioned curls that made it hard to see with one eye.

Her feet were covered to the knees by lace-made boots, which made him wonder how she could actually walk. She looked nothing like someone off to buy some milk. Answer to his mental question, she raised her own bag containing a bottle of wine and a pack of jerky, which was somehow worse.

"The wine says I have exquisite taste, yet the jerky says I can be happy with little" she explained with a smile. "Also I really wanted jerky"

"Of course you did" he recognized, because it was the thing to say. "Milo, why are you dressed up to do the shopping?" he asked, waiting for an answer that at least masqueraded as sane.

She gallantly grabbed some of his bags, and waited for him to pick up his and walk outside the store.

"I wasn't dressed up for that. There was a fashion show cocktail party sort of deal last night" she spotted his confused look. "You wouldn't know about it from the news. It was a con"

"Oh"

"Yes, and while the party ended at one, the rest of us stayed around and finished the champagne and tiny sandwiches to celebrate. Only I'm still bored and not at all tired, so I figured wine and jerky might make a nice breakfast snack"

"Do you often have jerky for breakfast?"

"Well, no. I have scotch most of the time" she nodded sagely and he shook his head, his medical degree amused at the fact that she was still standing and horrified by the same reason. His more immediate conclusion was that she was hungover constantly.

He balanced the bags into one hand while he removed his keys, and held the door opened for her.

"He's still upstairs in his chair, I bet" he nodded for the upper floor. "Hasn't moved all morning. Are you staying for a cuppa?"

"No, thank you. I fear Sherlock's boredom might be catchy and I have enough of my own. Hey Sherlock!" she greeted from the stairs.

"Don't worry about us. We'll manage" John told him when he sat, motionless, still in his chair. There was still no gesture, until John had asked about the laptop Sherlock was using.

Milo felt content to stay around and listening to them bicker in their odd sense of camaraderie, while muttering "Bachelors…" and beginning to remove things from the bags.

Her eyes caught a mountain of bills that Sherlock was probably too far-removed to notice and John too broke to pay. A new, deep scratch was adorning the table. Small scorch marks tainted the counters, results of what was explained as 'experiments' – terrifying in their own right. The dishes hadn't been cleaned up since they had probably moved in (and there were certainly a lot of them for bachelors) and various bottles made the place look like a mix between an alchemy shop and a meth lab.

A fool would have realized that the kitchen was far too messy and convoluted to find the place for everything, so she didn't even try. She might have been glad of that fact considering what the fridge or microwave or drawers might have hidden.

She entered the living room at the right moment for the detective to breeze by her saying "I need to go to the bank"

She looked at John. John looked at her.

They both shrugged and followed because, apparently, that was what her life had come to.

Sherlock hailed a cab and only looked at her properly when he got in. He frowned in question.

"You hadn't even noticed I was there, did you? A girl could get upset over something like that. It was a fashion show, party, cocktail dinner…_thing_" she enumerated, quite obviously not in the least upset.

"Awfully early for a fashion show, party, cocktail dinner thing" he mocked. "Or should I say late?"

"It stretched on and on. I did get to see Lady What's-her-name pay thousands of pounds to wear a garbage bag, though" she smirked, starting to take off her jewellery. It felt tacky to be seen with that amount of jewellery – and all too visible.

"Old Lady What's-her-name?" John asked.

She waved her hand, fidgeting with the fistful of emeralds. "You'll read about it in the papers in a few days. So…what bank?"

A _large_ bank. It was right by the Gherkin building, proof that throwing enough money at something overruled something like class, architectural style or college humour. The entire thing was a dirty joke waiting to happen. It didn't help that St. Andrew Undershaft was under it although it might have been blasphemous.

They walked to the door of Shad Sanderson, Investment Bank. She'd never been inside, which earned it the dubious honour of being one of the few London banks she hadn't conducted a scheme in, yet.

John looked at its interior, trying to guess, most probably, why someone like Sherlock would want to go inside.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank…" He seemed to have no trouble following, however, no matter what the destination.

They'd gone up the stairs to the desks where Sherlock introduced himself. The speed at which they were ushered inside betrayed a rush of a desperate employee of the bank, rather than, say, some poor idiot trying to raise capital.

Said desperate employee was a man rushing to greet the detective, in one of the upper floors. A city boy, in short. A round face with a horribly dull and uninspired haircut that made him look like an egg with a toupee, tiny eyes deeply seeded at the root of his nose glazed with a 'better-than-thou' attitude and a weak chin. He had gotten as far as learning the proper match of checked shirt and patterned tie, which added a subtle depth of character when done properly. _If_ done properly. He had tried.

He was a banker, thus exuded a sort of oily charm, which made people like Milo want to nick his wallet. In time, it would mature into a classier sort of snobbish arrogance but he was far too young for it.

He liked to make a good impression and generally managed it, she thought, at least through the ranks of wealthy snobs. He had the faith of his boss and just by the way he carried himself Milo could note that he liked to brag about it. He wasn't stupid however…men like that never were.

The prestige of solving whatever crisis he was having far surpassed having to ask someone for help even if that someone was Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he greeted, loudly, and with much more familiarity than either John or Milo had expected.

"Sebastian" Sherlock greeted with lesser enthusiasm.

If there was something to be said about bankers as a whole, their handshakes should be mentioned. As far as Milo was concerned, it was perfect a perfect Western cultured gesture: eye to eye contact, perfect balance of steadiness and shake, firm grip and correct use of the left hand. The man – Sebastian Wilkes as the door mentioned – was a case study for it. A tad hasty but the familiarity allowed it.

"How are you, buddy? How long - eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

However long it had been, Sherlock didn't seem to cherish the reunion. There was obvious distaste there for anyone who knew enough of expressions to see. There was indeed history there and it was not friendly, at least as far as the detective was concerned.

"This is my _friend_, John Watson" and the word friend took meaning as soon as he spoke it. Sebastian seemed to have caught on to the meaning. John had not.

"Friend?" his closed mouth grin already starting to stretch Milo's nerves.

"Colleague" the doctor rectified, shaking the man's hand.

"Right" he said, the clarification clearly amusing.

"Milo Rivers" Sherlock nodded towards her.

"How _do _you do?" she affected, leaning forward which involved, in a not too accidental coincidence, leaning on Sherlock. The hand was gently gripped her fingers, thumb over knuckles and dry lips touched the back of her hand for about two seconds.

"It's a pleasure" he said in a lower tonality, while his eyes expressed the correlation between her and stocks doing a bull charge.

Her smile was sweet and candid even as she tore her hand away, the femininity of her gestures contrasting heavily with the behaviour she had only earlier that morning. She was quite glad that she'd met John dressed as she was. The same result simply wouldn't have been possible with her usual, comfortable clothes. She liked the attention of men who would otherwise only view her as a street rat. She saw them as pretty little dolls or puppies: something amusing to laugh about while she drank too much and entertain her, equally plebeian companions.

Sebastian Wilkes scratched the back of his head and headed for his office.

"Grab a pew. Do you need anything, coffee, water?"

The three discreetly shook their head. John, clearly disliking the man far more once he had opened his mouth, was attentive enough to read Milo's expression.

'Sit down' it said, as she positioned herself behind the detective with the same Mona Lisa smile.

"No? We're all sorted here, thanks" Sebastian told his young assistant, who disappeared around the corner. She supposed it was much too early to start drinking, in some people's eyes.

"So you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot" Sherlock started in an attempt at small talk.

"Well, so?" the banker asked with transparent self-satisfaction.

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?" he asked with the tone that Milo was starting to know as 'casual superiority'. She'd only noted the names on some of the papers on his desk and the annotations on his notepad.

The grin started to betray irritation and there was the steepled hand gesture…

'I'm better than you' as if the different sides of the table or size of the chair showed some sort of worth or character. "Right. You're doing that thing" His eyes met hers, then John's as he explained. "We were at uni together and this guy here had a trick he used to do"

"It's not a trick" was Sherlock's only reply.

Sebastian continued undeterred. "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story"

"Yes, I've seen him do it" John contributed, lacking the mockery or humour. He disliked being there, that much had been obvious.

"Put the wind up everybody. We hated it. We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know who you'd been shagging the previous night"

Even from her viewpoint of only seeing his curls, Milo could tell by head gestures that Sherlock definitely felt – and looked – younger and much less surgically removed from the background.

She'd been thankfully saved from such teenage year horrors. She'd only gone to school from time to time, enough to still get a diploma at the end of the year and appease the random authority figures of her life. She had also been fairly popular in the eyes of her peers. It wasn't solely due to the leather jacket, cigarettes, or even the skipping of classes. Those were common among the self-entitled rebels in search of themselves or those still in the "punk-rock" scene.

Unlike most teenagers who wandered through the halls of learning, Milo had never needed anyone to classify her as 'cool'. She had other worries such as skirting around the police and saving money. Her plans didn't depend on getting that high grade in History, they dealt in the future, in seeing the world, apartments with a terrace and thrills born of illegality.

As such, she had enough confidence to be noticed. It was the odd effect of the married man who attracted more women attached than while single.

Whatever drama Sherlock had been through in uni or any other scholarly institutions was as foreign to her as paying taxes. It didn't mean she did not consider them to be life-altering moments, however and even if sympathising, it was still fascinating to watch.

"I merely observed" he replied. She wondered how often he'd said that in the course of his years.

"Go on, enlighten me" he nearly dared. He had nothing to lose, which was probably his favourite gamble: if Sherlock could not point it out, he could still make jokes about that. If he could, his point was proven. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you're quite right. How could you tell?" he cut Sherlock off. "Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

John smiled to the side, attracting Sebastian's attention in thinking he'd found an ally.

"No, I…"

"Is it the mud on my shoes?"

He didn't have mud on his shoes.

She smiled because if Sherlock was anything like his brother, he'd pick option number three…

"I was just chatting with your secretary outside" And there it was. "She told me"

John looked at him oddly. The man was far too expressive, she thought. If he weren't broke, she'd have invited him to a game of poker.

He started laughing loudly and in a fake manner as if he were a part of the joke, clapping once at the end. At least he was clever enough to know he was being played, which was certainly something. Milo wasn't sure what, but it was _something _and with the characters she'd met along the years, it was better than nothing. And knowing better, he changed the subject, steepling his hands again; a fascinating gesture to be sure and one of the only ones who betrayed their user so completely.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in"

"A break-in? How thrilling" Milo chirped in the most stereotypically feminine way possible. She received a smouldering little smirk before he took the lead. John raised an eyebrow at her before following.

She sneaked her hands in the crook of Sherlock's arm to raise herself to his ear. "Is it just me, or is his face _perfectly _shaped to cradle a human fist?" she whispered. He smiled amusedly for a second before John turned around and she removed her arms.

"Where exactly was the break-in?" she asked. Her first thoughts were directed to the server room. A bank's mainframe was one of the most interesting things inside except perhaps the safe.

They were not heading for the elevator, however.

"Sir William's office – the bank's former chairman" Sebastian explained, occasionally looking back. "The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night"

The three hurried down to the office, while Milo stood behind, looking at her environment. It was odd to be in a bank during daylight hours and without wearing a tight black outfit, a starchy grey suit or a technician's outfit. Of course, it was just as boring for the employees who hadn't even raised their heads when they passed. It was lunch hour. Why weren't they out for lunch?

"What did they steal?" John asked.

"Nothing. Just left a little message" he answered. It was probably only that and their reputation that had kept the police away. It was more and more obvious as to why Sherlock was called.

A magnetic card unlocked the door to the office, where there was nothing to steal. An uninspired lion roaring, placed right on the desk, betrayed more about its former owner than he might have liked. Old furniture, woefully inappropriate to the modern surroundings, boxes left for whatever reason and of course, a hideous portrait, filled the room.

If she would have been one of the employees at that bank, on that floor, she would have blotted out the painting's eyes too. Even with the line of garish yellow, it still seemed like it followed you about. Added to the chairman's death and it made for a wonderfully creepy ghost story.

"If you'll come back to my office, I'll show you the CCTV footage" Sebastian said, opening the door for them. It locked behind them with a click.

"We've been meaning to discuss security with a New York bank to implement changes in the safe and server room. They have a heuristic algorithm or some such to lock the place out" he looked at her as if his words were for her benefit. "That is an …adaptive program. They have reportedly no break-ins and the program is state of the art"

"Is that the Morton and Bain bank on Fifth Avenue?" she asked, fidgeting with her hair like a little girl asking for a pony.

"Yes, it is. How did you know?" he looked back.

"Because I designed that system specifically for them. It's not for sale" she answered in a definitive manner and enjoyed the surprise that showed on his face for a split second.

"Right" he laughed. "Well, it was too expensive to implement on the entire building anyway. It might have worked for a small place like Morton and Bain, but here…" he gestured around as if the large space was proof enough. "Besides why would anyone break into the offices, anyway?"

"Well, to leave a message, perhaps" Sherlock suggested.

Sebastian made a sour face before entering his office and gesturing for his computer. "You can see the CCTV footage here" he typed the appropriate hostname and moved to the side to allow them to see.

"60 seconds apart" he pressed the arrow keys, showing the difference. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute"

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting" he showed to the door again. It was almost as if he relished the secrecy and moving them around like a Cluedo routine.

Milo had picked the shoes because, at a fashion show where people sat down, shoes were important. Despite being pretty – and they were very much so – they were not at all comfortable. Her feet had frozen and gone numb at least three hours before. She hopped right up on the receptions desk, to the delight of every man watching her legs.

Sebastian took over the computer next to her and opened a numbered file. He picked through the building plans until he reached the proper floor and opened it.

"Here it is. You see, every door that opens in the bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet" he closed the window and started fixing his jacket.

"That door didn't open last night?" Sherlock asked, without much need for an answer. If it had, there wouldn't have been a mystery, just someone to fire.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures. This is an advance" he fluttered a check gotten from an inner pocket. "Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way" he offered the piece of paper to the detective who hadn't so much as looked at it.

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian" he answered and dismissed him, walking towards the elevator. John made an incredulous face.

"He's er…he's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him?"

Sebastian handed it over with a smug smile, unbuttoning his jacket.

"Thank you. I'll er…be right back. Excuse me" It was clear, even as he headed in the direction of the bathroom that he had never seen that large an amount written even on a check. To most, employees or dependents, accustomed to a salary, a large amount lost its meaning. It simply became 'a lot' which could be referenced as what they could make in months or even years.

The fact that she wasn't impressed by it only added an extra point to the impression she made on the banker, who offered a hand. She gave him a virginal smile and took it, jumping off the table.

"Thank you"

He nodded, the hand formerly holding hers moving to the small of her back. "Tell me, how does someone like him…get someone like you?"

"That is...the right question" she offered a brilliant smile with a rosy blush that accentuated her eyes. "But in the wrong order. How did someone like me, get someone like him? He's brilliant, articulate…a girl could get lost in his eyes. I simply got lucky" she shrugged in a resigned fashion and walked ahead, rolling her eyes as soon as she left him behind. She wanted to see her face but was not willing to turn back just for that. It would have added the wrong subtext.

Sherlock wouldn't have been the type to even consider flaunting a girl and wouldn't have appreciated what she'd done, but Milo considered it amusing. And it would definitely be something to chat about for his former classmates.

She caught up with Sherlock by the office of Sir William, where he was looking at the locking system by the door.

"I find it ironic that his office is right by the Security room, don't you?" she started.

"Hm? Oh. Yes" he stopped and looked right at her. "What do you think?"

"About?" she frowned.

He leaned over suspiciously close. "You're the professional thief" he straightened, entering the office.

She snorted. "Well, the entire '60 second' apart frame _is_ the security hole if you ask me. It might as well have been an hour. Most thieves would kill for that much time to do whatever they want to do. I mean really, it's not like they have to buy a lot of fucking VCR tape these days, do they? Or CDs. PCs have terabyte sized hard drives but no…they just take screenshots of the camera as if they're trying to do a bloody collage! It's disgraceful! How's an honest thief supposed to derive some pride out of this?"

She cleared her throat seeing the expression on Sherlock's face, irritated but strangely interested in her outburst. Had he lacked a case, he would have enjoyed taking advantage of that strange window into her moral mind frame.

She continued, much more professionally. "I can find two…no, three ways of actually doing this whole charade. The first assumes manipulation of the computer data" she jumped on Old Will's desk staying out of the way as he took pictures and dangled her legs childishly "But that opens an entirely different can of worms so I wouldn't start with that. Besides, it requires prepping. The second part…" she dragged a finger over the table. "involves a boring yet reliable method. Either pretend to be part of the cleaning staff or find a way to keep the door open after they leave. Considering how clean this place is, the schedule is regular. Then, you hide in a camera blind spot, do whatever you need and either hide back or get out some other way"

He frowned in thought, looking around when his eyes caught the window.

"That would be the other way _and_ my third way inside" she completed. "Windows are the structural weakness of all buildings"

She watched him look down and joined him. "This is the fortieth floor?" she leaned backwards until she was half-way hanging over the banister. "Harder has been done"

He turned abruptly and went to the other side of the trading area.

Alone, with her thoughts, Milo felt like the covered eyes were watching her again. As if the damn portrait _knew_ she disliked bankers. She could taste the old cologne…and for a split second the air breezing by sounded like heavy breathing right behind her…

"Sherlock!" she said, following out the door.

His head popped out from behind some offices before popping back down. Then he went one office row behind and went back down.

"What is he doing?" John asked, coming up from the elevator direction.

"An impressive interpretative rendition of Swan Lake?" she hinted. He ducked and twirled behind a pillar. "And…en dedans…" she muttered like a director anticipating the script. He moved closer to the door and ripped out the name of the one who owned the administrative office.

"Good. He found what he was looking for. Let's go while the curse of the…blind banker over there isn't yet upon us" she told John who frowned in confusion.

"The what?"

"Nothing. Can't believe I spent almost five hours in a bank and have yet to make a profit" she crossed her arms and grinned.

"What is it?" he asked, catching her malicious expression.

"I would have been offered six figures to break inside once and I wouldn't have had to write a report. He gets paid five figures for something that benefits the bank in the long run and has to explain himself to unimaginative toadies. I _knew _I was into the right line of work, I could just never prove it" the two followed as Sherlock passed by.

"You'd get six figures just to break into a man's office?" John asked disbelievingly.

"Talent is hard to come by. Besides, half the challenge is getting around the security system. There are thieves hired to test security systems for legit firms, you know. It's a lucrative business"

"Right. I'm not sure I would trust a thief to test security…" he looked at her as a side thought. "No offence"

"None taken. Ever thought of using a thief to catch a thief?" they entered the elevator.

"Yes…although I never thought of it as something that actually happened"

"You shouldn't. It's insulting" she watched as the floors numbered down. "I know plenty of people who got burned that way"

"Speaking from experience? Is that how you got a job doing the security system for a bank?" John pried.

"Oh no. Bain was an old…friend of mine. I did that one for fun" she stuffed her hands into her pockets, saying no more on the subject.

John shook his head. If he had seen the largest amount of money in his life written on that check, it seemed fairly natural for him not to believe her. It seemed like years since she'd been offered a legitimate business deal and they never failed in making her feel like a dilettante in her own profession. She felt like they were some of the most dangerous affairs of her life. You can expect a crook to try to cheat you, it's what he did. Regular, law-abiding people however, were not that simple and a double-cross was harder to predict and much harder to avoid.

And there was a time, in 2007, right in London, when she nearly had been…

"Two trips around the world this month" John addressed Sherlock, who looked back, sensing himself included in the conversation. "You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him"

Sherlock grinned for a second with a child-like face.

"How did you know?"

"Did you see his watch?"

Breitling watch. The cost of one was from two hundred pounds dollars to thirty-five hundred, depending on different editions. The trick was to loosen it while shaking hands (easier on metallic wristbands than leather), then sweep your hand over the wrist…

There was a particularly decent watch fence living in St. Georges Fields…

"His watch?"

"The time was right, but the date was wrong. It said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice and he didn't alter it" he took the stairs down.

"Within the month. How did you get that?"

"New Breitling. It only came out this February"

Such sentences opened up interesting and terrifying windows into Sherlock's world in which he was scouring the Internet for new fashion accessories only to see what came out and when…

John smiled, nodding. It seemed so simple when explained. "Ok. So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks. That graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and…" he let the sentence hang.

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it?" John followed.

"Obvious"

"Well…there's three hundred people up there, who was it meant for?"

"Pillars"

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens" he described the room, explaining his ballet. "Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And, of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot"

"Does it?"

"If you two are going to be walking that fast, then I invite you to switch shoes with me!" Milo huffed from a considerable distance behind.

"Four inch fucking stilettos. What the hell was I thinking? It's like doing en Pointe dancing again…" she muttered to herself as she caught up to the men who had waited for her at the door.

"Thank you. Please continue" she sighed.

Sherlock did. "The time. Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for somebody who came in at midnight. Not many Van Coons in the phone book" he showed the paper that had been on the door and then jumped in the middle of the street.

"Taxi!"


	15. Chapter 15

**Hive**

* * *

_"He is dead and gone, lady,__He is dead and gone;__  
__At his head a grass-green turf, __At his heels a stone." ~ __William Shakespeare__,__Hamlet_

* * *

The taxi took longer to reach its destination than it was expected. There was no particularly dense traffic, no side streets were taken for 'speed' and the driver was not particularly slow. The speeding car however, could not compare its rush to the atmosphere inside it, which was tense and agitated. Sherlock, in particular, looked as if he would have jumped out and started jogging to where they needed to be, which only further fuelled John's desire to do the same.

The same state accentuated Milo's adrenaline rush despite her having been awake for nearly thirty-six hours and counting without any coffee other than the one had that previous morning. She covered her freezing fingers with matched green satin gloves and leaned back in her seat. The break was far too short and it only empowered the strain she'd put on her feet.

Still, she couldn't lie to herself. She enjoyed it. She would have sacrificed her feet completely for an eye-catching affair and a bit of fun. All the situation needed was a decent drink, an attractive and friendly man, cake and money.

She smiled genuinely at John when he offered a helping hand out of the car. The impression she'd had on him since she first saw him stuck around: a decent man with a great deal of compassion towards most people. She added 'well-mannered' to the list, those of the old-fashioned variety; the kind of man to sleep on the floor if he was sharing a room with a woman. The thought amused her terribly.

In front of the building, their rapid progression was impeded by a door. It was a recent building with no porter but rather, its modern equivalent: the buzzer. Milo generally adored the little thing. A porter might have known exactly who and what moved in the building, filtered visitors and might have had a direct line to the police. With a buzzer, some time spent at the door, a good enough excuse and looks that were slightly less insane than, say, the Joker, resulted in the fact that a kind enough soul would always open the door with little to no questions asked.

They didn't even have to verify the address as the name of Van Coon was clearly labelled next to his apartment number. Sherlock pressed once, then a second time when there was no answer. He stepped back, looking at the façade and gauged out an appropriate floor and balcony solely on the apartment number.

"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?" John asked, hands in his pocket to hide from the cold.

"That might take quite some time. The Hong Kong market opens at one and closes at eight. If he's not here now, we might end up waiting for the rest of the night" Milo leaned against the rail, keeping silent in both ideas and opinions. It was a treat to see someone else figure out a solution and amusement was the only reason she'd followed. They hadn't disappointed yet.

Sherlock adopted a satisfied expression. "Just moved in"

"What?"

"Floor above, new label" he explained, pressing down on the paper to see the name better, written in plain blue pen.

"Could have just replaced it" John suggested.

He pressed it hard and waited. "No one ever does that" he said as an afterthought.

"Hello?" a female voice resounded.

"Hi" Sherlock answered in a much less cold and subdued tone of voice. "Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met" he grinned in character.

"No, well, er, I've just moved in" came the reply.

Sherlock gave John a meaningful look, nodding. "Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat…" he said, allowing her to finish the suggestion and feel helpful.

"Do you want me to buzz you in?" she hurried, not disappointing.

"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?" he suggested in a similar innocent tone.

It caught the woman off guard. "What?"

They did get the buzz that opened the building and Milo shook her head and punched him playfully in the shoulder. "If you ever feel like stepping on the other side of the law, do give me a call" she grinned, somewhat in jest but mostly complimentary.

The woman not only buzzed them inside the building, she also opened the door to her apartment, which was more than Milo would have done in any given day. It took a special sort of person to see three people at your door, dressed well or otherwise, and invite them inside to jump out of one's balcony. Either that or she was too shocked to protest anything.

Sherlock rushed ahead without a word, as if charging an enemy.

"We're really sorry to disturb you" Milo started with a serene smile and no trace of explanation, thinking that if John had any sense of the ridiculous, he'd stay silent as well.

It dawned on her barely then that she could have lock picked the door, when it was already too late. It seemed as though Sherlock's rush and thought pattern was making her forget how to think altogether. Whether he'd wanted to test his and her theory on windows mattered little when it was preceded by such a scene that he'd so rapidly left them in.

The girl – woman – seemed like a middle to upper class employee, with decent enough taste. Her apartment, though mostly bare at the time and peppered with unpacked boxes was decidedly better looking than Milo's newly acquired penthouse, who hadn't even been furnished yet even if she seemed to have moved much more recently – only a matter of days. Her bafflement at having been invaded by the detective and his growing menagerie was genuine, yet they were in her apartment and she didn't know how to ask them why. British manners, those were…

"Oh no, that's not a problem, but what is he trying…" she stopped as if even the thought seemed too silly for words. Milo flashed her a smile again and began to unknot the satin ribbons that held her boots on her feet.

"Oh, those are beautiful" she gushed as most women did at the sight of pretty shoes.

"You really like them?" Milo asked, starting on the other foot.

"They're delightful!"

Finally barefoot on the soft carpet, Milo shuddered in barely suppressed delight. She was indeed four inches shorter, which was a lot when you didn't have that many to spare, but she finally felt blood reaching her toes. She put the offending torture devices in the woman's hands.

"Then you can have them. I've had enough of them. If they don't fit you, sell them and get new ones. It's a boutique on Oxford Street. They've only been worn once" she stated and headed for the balcony.

"But…I can't take them. These are yours" she hesitated, though already starting to caress the soft, hand-made lace.

"And now they're yours!" she grinned with evident glee and jumped off the balcony.

The woman turned to John with a baffled expression, which made him uncomfortable.

"Does she really mean that?"

"Er…I guess so. Excuse me" he headed for the door. "Thanks for letting us on the balcony!"

Milo would laugh about this later, calling it the most polite break-in in history.

One floor down, she landed right after Sherlock and followed him inside through the open door. A large number of books on mystery, ciphers and codes were gathered in a pile by the large LCD television, alongside a dark marble head, and speakers, indicating a more recent and often perusal than normal. Newspapers were sitting on the ottoman right by the sofa. The lamps were on and the heat emanating from them indicated they had been lit for quite some time. Enough to convince anyone that something was wrong.

The room had a large, fully equipped kitchen on the left, supplied with more champagne bottles than was thought normal. A half-buttered piece of bread lingered on the table. The hallway led to several doors that she hinted as the bathroom, closet and bedroom. She followed closely behind Sherlock, confident that if someone _was_ there, getting punched would be the taller one of the two home invaders.

She had delicate skin.

"Sherlock! Milo! Sherlock, are you okay?" John rang at the doorbell, stupid move in case something or someone was in the house. Neither made to open the door.

The bathroom was small, but clean. She went inside, looking at the items inside the bathroom: a sole toothbrush, nicely folded, dry towels, a small array of pills in the drawers. A man who frequently slept alone at home, stayed very little inside his own apartment and had high regards for hygiene.

She turned to see Sherlock open the door via shoulder and sighed.

"You know" she said softly. "What is the point of bringing a thief while house-breaking if you're just going to smash through the-…oh" she stopped. Still dressed for work with a coat on, even, collapsed on the made bed, lay Van Coon, with a gun by his hand. Compared to Sebastian Wilkes he had a perfect sense of style, though what of use had that been to him?

Milo didn't get closer, letting the detective inspect the crime scene as much as he wanted, and opened the door to the already annoyed doctor.

He opened his mouth to either shout or make some sort of remark, but she'd anticipated that.

"Van Coon's snuffed it" was all she said, closing his mouth. He stormed past her as if a bullet to the head was something only a doctor could diagnose.

She closed the door and leaned against it, unsatisfied. Irritated, even. There was an appropriate saying she'd once heard in Eastern Europe, which translated, said "We were waiting for him with flowers at the station, while he was greeting God". She was actually quite curious to meet the banker and assay his opinions on the squiggles. It would have been an interesting conversation. Why did he have to go and get himself killed?

There was no charm, subtlety, or cleverness to be found in a dead body, she surmised, unless your name was Sherlock Holmes. He was positively glowing as he put aside his phone.

"You called the police?" she asked from the door.

"Yes, I phoned Lestrade. Someone should be here in a matter of minutes" he raised his eyes to her and for a second, his face read confusion. "Where are your shoes?"

Her face darkened and she glared at him for the question. She mumbled intelligibly between the words, then turned and left the apartment.

Both men remained perplexed for a moment before Sherlock shook his head and returned to the body.

For her part, the woman walked, angrily, into the nearest clothing store around, purchased a pair of suede boots from the children's section, thigh high socks (which would have been knee-high on taller women) and swapped the long coat for a leather jacket she'd bought off the saleswoman. Even coupled with the silk dress, it still looked casual compared to her original look, thus much better suited for chasing off after the eager detective. A large amount of money ensured that the coat and jewellery would be sent to her penthouse later, which the, also well-paid, porter would receive in her name.

She waited at the door, lighting her first cigarette of the day and noting that the police cars were almost illegally parked due to the rush they'd responded to Sherlock's call. The cold had coloured her cheeks a delicate shade of pink, and she puffed away at the exotic aroma while she waited. Meeting the police – as in actually being introduced and seen by a member of the guys in blue – was not in her immediate plans nor her more distant ones.

Her presence around Sherlock was a game of personal nature, amusement and most of all, personal rules. Flirting with the law was not a part of the games, it was her day-job. One she was avoiding.

She waited until the two got out of the building to join them.

"So, what's the verdict?" she fell in step, trying not to remark on the man's foul mood.

"The detective inspector thought it was a suicide" John explained.

"It wasn't a suicide" she stated, stomping on her cigarette as Sherlock hailed another cab.

"How do you know?" he asked, getting inside.

"There was no suicide note, he had no change in weight or appetite conclusive to deep depression – check his clothes and the food on the table, he'd been eating – he hadn't put his affairs in order…the phone charger was still plugged in and lamps lit. Just by looking at his clothes you could see he wasn't ready to die. Who commits suicide still wearing their coat? He'd been in a hurry while locking himself in. He was executed" she finished.

"Because…he got shot from the side of the head, not the front?" John caught on.

"Yep. He hadn't been caught by surprise, not going by the gun" she shrugged.

"He thinks someone was threatening him" he nodded towards the detective.

"And climbed through the balcony to do it? Sounds …like a lot of trouble to go to just to kill someone. So why do the cops think it's a suicide?"

"Because they're idiots" Sherlock declared.

She shrugged, although whether in agreement or not, it wasn't obvious. Her opinion of the police was not the best but she'd found enough gems in the pile to consider them a threat.

"So what now?" she asked.

"We find out more about Van Coon" the detective replied, hailing a cab, getting in and looked at the two following him. "Who would know more about him?"

"His mother?" she joked.

She got glared at.

"Someone who worked with him?" John asked.

"Exactly" he settled in his seat, after giving the indications for a fancy restaurant, located by Shad Sanderson, known for his clientele.

"You're just trying to crash on his dinner" Milo smirked.

Sherlock didn't deny it.

Their passage was not blocked at the entrance to the restaurant, though they didn't solicit a table. The maitre d', possibly having a bad day, most likely decided that whoever came in straight as an arrow with the determination visible in their footsteps wasn't worth stopping so he stayed aside, watching from a safe distance. Four tables down, Sebastian Wilkes was recounting amusing anecdotes to three of his buddies, all in a suit, all wearing bright ties, all sitting on the ottomans that looked uncomfortable to sit on for a tall person.

"It was a threat, that's what the graffiti meant" Sherlock ploughed in without so much of a 'how do you do'?

Sebastian gave a weak smile, being caught off-guard, fork-full of pasta half-way to his mouth. "I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian" he replied, not feeling sorry at all or even faking it. "One of your traders, someone who works in _your office_, was killed"

Tact, thy name is Sherlock Holmes.

"What?!" his arrogance took a back step in surprise.

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat" John elaborated.

"Killed?!" he exclaimed again.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at the Scotland Yard suit?" he knocked on the glass table to make a point.

Sebastian lightly passed a finger under his collar, as if it was getting tighter and got up. "We should talk somewhere more private" he lead for the bathrooms at the end of the tables. Seeing as she was neither male nor that inclined to do 'loo chats', Milo sat down in his place.

"You don't mind, do you boys?" she put on a charming smile, nodding to John, indicating that she'll be sticking around.

The three shook their heads, taking a drink of their wine.

"What happened?" the one in glasses and colourful tie beside her asked.

"Darling, we wouldn't be here if we knew much. You don't mind, do you love?" she took the glass of wine to the one on her right in a red tie and sipped. She didn't light her customary cigarette. It generally gave an air an independence she didn't aim for, at the moment, and there was the whole 'no-smoking' rule she tended to ignore. "What are you guys trading in at the moment?" she asked casually.

"I'm in the New York stocks" the one in front of her said, also in a red tie with a somewhat sleazy face. He was concurred by the one on the right. She looked to the one with glasses.

"I'm strictly London" he said.

"Ah. Interesting" she said from behind the glass, pushing the pasta plate away from her.

"Are you sure it was murder and not a suicide?" the one in front of her asked.

"Hm…think of it this way: how many of you would kill themselves if the stocks plummeted right now? Would you take your own life or try to compensate for them? Would Sebastian? I assume you knew Van Coon. Would he?"

They all took sips, hiding themselves behind their wine or water glasses without even realizing their collective actions.

"That's what I thought. City suicides aren't as numerous as people think…they're just more mediatised. They like the title "_Anothe_r banker suicide" as if it was some sort of epidemic" she shrugged. "You don't get into this type of business without developing some steel nerves"

"But murdered?" the one of the left stated. "We're bankers!"

"Yes, even if we made enemies and most of us do, it's not between the type of people who would come after you with a knife" the one on the right concurred and they all smiled, a bit uneasily.

"That's also true" she flicked her head back and leaned forward. "Were there any sort of extreme fluctuations on the market that I am not aware of?"

"No, not really"

"Well, there's always some fluctuation" said Sleazy Red-tie. "But none have been under the floor as of late, even in Hong Kong"

"So you did know Van Coon?"

They looked down, and Right Red-tie started to play with his food.

"Come on, I'm not the police" she smiled, cocking her head to the right, looking innocent and far too accommodating for a murder investigation. "I'm merely asking because well, you knew him. It would help" she widened her eyes and leaned even further, making herself smaller and less threatening.

"We all knew Eddie" Glasses said, placing his napkin on the table and trying to lean back to the best of his ability, seeing as he was sitting on an ottoman. "He was a bright guy. He worked hard. He liked what he did, I think"

"Oh, come off it. He was a git. There" Right Red-tie stated, only for Sleazy to intervene.

"Yeah, he was a git sometimes. We all can be, but he was surprisingly down to earth. What we're trying to say is, he liked money"

"Don't we all?" Glasses asked.

"He liked it a lot more than me" Right put his fork down. "Look, I'm not sure what his deal was. Eddie took risks. He got off on it. Yeah, all right, we all like money. That's human nature. But Eddie was into some high risk businesses. Don't get me wrong, it made him a great broker. But he was a shitty person"

"He was better than you" Sleazy retorted.

Right shook his head at his peers.

"So what do _you_ guys think happened?' she asked, pleased at the dissention.

They all shared a look. It didn't take long for the men to come out of the bathroom, Sebastian in front as if trying to escape his situation, but by that time the conversation had devolved into the future market and predictions on the best possible stocks to acquire.

"I'm not saying that. I'm saying that this year is going to be quite volatile. I mean, it figures with the financial crisis" Milo took another sip of Right's wine.

"So you're not about long investments, then?" Glasses asked.

"Come on…long term investments are just short ones gone wrong. If you're playing the game you might as well play it at its best. Whatever you prefer, though, I'd avoid financials and materials stocks this year. Defensive stocks , particularly those with dividends should go quite well"

"What about Visa? It's supported by powerful macro trends" Right said.

"Hmm…I guess it depends on the government, but Visa should be fine"

"Cnooc?" Sleazy asked.

"The earnings alone should prove it strong enough. And its overseas investment strategy should be largely unaffected no matter what happens later on. Just keep your eyes on the news and it should be fine"

"What are you talking all about?" Sebastian asked, reaching the table.

"Stocks" she answered. Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept walking.

"Yeah, she's got some really interesting ideas about how the year is going to go" Glasses commented.

"Really?" he looked at her. She smiled and gave the glass back to Right.

"Oh, you know…just keeping my eye on the newspapers. It was nice meeting you, gentlemen" she gave a wide grin. "And good luck"

"Hey, can we see you again?" Right asked as she walked on.

"If you're persistent and ambitious…maybe" she winked and followed quickly after the men she came with.

Just like that, she had three potential marks on the ice. It was a good day. She caught up with the rest once they were exiting the restaurant, the maitre d' still following them with his eyes.

"What was that all about?" John asked once she caught up.

"Oh, you know. Just business"

"I didn't mean that. I meant how do you know so much about stocks? I thought you hated banks"

She sighed. "All grifters do at least one good and profitable stock con. You pick things along as you go. Besides, it's all mostly global events and how they influence the world. You don't have to have a PhD in Mathematics to estimate who will do well or not. It's about appearances. And who better to know that than grifters?"

"How would one go about making a losing five million and making it back in one week?" Sherlock asked, looking pointedly at her. "Since you know so much about stocks"

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"That's what Van Coon did, you know…before…" John explained.

He bit the dust.

"Well…one thing would be rumour spreading. Like I said: appearances. A discussion full of subtle hints between a trader in NASDAQ and one in Tokyo posted online and you can spark interest, which promotes purchase, which raises the prices…you see my point. Hard to do that individually, but enough specialists on retinue and sure, it's a thing. Second option I can come up with, much easier on for a single person is insider trading. Both of these are illegal, though" she said the last part with a mock preaching sort of tone. "You think Van Coon was into something dangerous regarding insider trading? Because there are a lot of bankers who do that and very few end up with an extra hole in their head" she paused. "They end up in the Caribbean, actually"

"I don't know, yet" Sherlock answered. "What I do know…is that it had something to do with the code"


	16. Chapter 16

**Mastermind**

* * *

"_The multiple human needs and desires that demand privacy among two or more people in the midst of social life must inevitably lead to cryptology _

_wherever men thrive and wherever they write." ~ David Kahn_

* * *

The horoscope for Pisces said:

_Calm your mind and take a few gentle breaths. The planets encourage you to listen to your inner self and throw logic out the door. It's time to follow instincts; stay too set in your ways and you could miss out on rare opportunity. Admittedly, your intuition won't always be on target. Some moves may even take you along a risky path, though they'll add to that treasure of experience we call "life". _

Milo took a mouthful of cereal and chewed carefully. Whoever got paid to write these things was a better con than she was, she thought reverently. She hung the spoon in her mouth and tried to think on the wages a horoscope journalist might have gained.

Probably more than the police, who on top of their daily work of robberies, assaults and murder also had to deal with the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

It never ceased to baffle her. She kept coming across the same phenomenon: a professionally gifted man who was disarmingly uninterested in the social aspect of everyday life. Almost as if genius channelled towards one sole direction exhausted all resources. The man wasn't even intent on proper behaviour, due process meant nothing and felt that all that should have mattered were cold facts. While admirable, it was unrealistic to expect anyone to respond to such behaviour. A part of Milo that was strictly social animal was amused, like watching a chimp try to walk upright.

She felt cruel for making the comparison but it was oddly apt. As with the owner of the apartment they'd invaded, Sherlock's social façade only lasted that long before he got impatient and tried to strong arm results. The thought of him doing so to the police officials certainly brought a smile but it was only a matter of time before it would turn against him. Then, even Mycroft – also a man who tended to use force – would be hard pressed to help.

"Nothing?" he asked as soon as he started arranging his photographs in a morbid enough setup.

She shook her head.

The excuse for not tagging along with them to the police station had been a good one.

She set her computer to scour the internet for some sort of pattern: previous murders with a similar circumstance, stock market affairs, the code…anything that might have been relevant like some sort of macabre newsletter. Bar that, it could have at least created a plausible scenario of patterns given enough data. There had been no hits, which she had expected. There was too much information to wade through and too little information to go on. There was also a niggling feeling she'd seen those symbols before. There weren't any specifics and it wasn't how her mind worked. What it did however was ensure she thought about it so much it caused headaches and started associating it with the things she happened to be doing.

It was how she'd started to associate cream pie to a Beretta 92SB-F model or blood-removal to a Bon Jovi song.

She joined John and Sherlock as they watched the mirror.

"Where did you find those?" she pointed to the new photograph where the garish yellow had found itself on a white background, surrounded by books.

"West Kensington Library"

"How delightfully daring. He's not afraid of being noticed is he?"

"Leaving a threatening message on a portrait inside a bank office and a public library? Hardly" Sherlock commented.

"I wonder why he's so sure of himself. I mean, it's hardly normal graffiti. It's bound to get noticed"

"But not understood" John shrugged.

Sherlock finished putting up the pictures and stepped back. "So…the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies" he surmised.

John picked it up. "The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home…"

"Late that night, he dies too"

"Why did they die, Sherlock?" he asked.

"More importantly, why tell them they're going to die? If you simply want to kill someone, why let them know and have them go on the defence?" Milo interjected.

"Cheap thrills maybe?" John suggested. "He wanted them to know they were going to die?"

"But then, the killer would let them stew for a while, not kill them as soon as they see the message. It wasn't even for them to become sloppy. Both had essentially barricaded themselves inside their homes, blocked windows or no. Because who the hell expects their death to come through the windows like a confused and deranged Santa Claus?"

"Well…they should have" John reasoned.

"Point" Milo conceded with a shrug. She glanced at the detective who'd been silently staring at the graffiti. "So, what do you think? Why did they die?"

"Only the cipher can tell us" Sherlock touched the photograph of the banker's portrait. An odd expression passed over his face.

He tried – an exercise that stimulated his mind immensely – to reconstitute the act and motivation of the criminal: everything he did, from his visible break-ins to the murders. That involved but was not limited to the details of his work. Details were important; the quality of lipstick, the colour of one's hair dye, someone's shoes…They usually revealed more than anyone would care to project into the world. It was inevitable that a person's entire life spilled into one's actions.

Sherlock knew that quite well and detested that about people. Why couldn't people just keep to themselves? It made things so easy. At the same time, it was how he got most of his clues: the vital ones. Somehow people always left their prints around … for better or worse.

"Come on" he grabbed his coat again.

At a certain point their destination was revealed when the cab started a tight race with a 29 bus. They both stopped at the same stop with an unsatisfying result.

Trafalgar Square was full of people: tourists mostly, but the place was beautiful and central enough to attract its own people to it. Art students flocked in groves to the National Gallery and when they came out they sat on the steps and ate or laughed or compared notes.

Among so many students, Sherlock's lesson was almost appropriate.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John" he started, addressing his only listener when Milo wandered off to ask for a cigarette. "From the million-pound security system at the bank to the PIN machine you took exception to. Cryptography inhabits our every waking moment"

"Yes, okay, but…"

"But it's all computer generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it"

"I'd argue, I really would, but it's hard to disprove results" she popped in, exhaling smoke. "There's nothing. Even on the murders. You'd think ancient locked room mysteries would have more press coverage but apparently they're more interested in the BAFTA awards"

Sherlock nodded, already anticipating the answer.

"Where are we headed?" John asked.

"I need to ask some advice"

John gave a satisfied smile. "What? Sorry?"

Sherlock turned to him then away. "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again"

"You need advice?"

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert" he took a sharp turn to the back of the gallery, instead of going up the stairs towards the door, where the parking lot and electrical system rested. Around a corner, in a blank spot of the perpetual cameras that dotted London's streets was a young man graffiti painting the building. While the mystery of the expert was elucidated, the idea of Sherlock keeping such company amused.

The signature below the drawing indicated his street name: Raz.

He noticed them before they reached him and greeted them with an explanation.

"Part of my new exhibition"

"Interesting" Sherlock commented, starting to reach for his phone.

"I call it…'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'" he grinned.

"Catchy" John said with the tone of someone wanting to take a step back.

Milo took a closer look. "I like it"

"Yeah?" he turned his head slightly, looked her up and down from the leather to the ripped jeans and then back at his art. "I think it's pretty great. Now, I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes around that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock extended his cell phone and resigned to an unfinished masterpiece, Raz turned to take it, emptying his right hand by tossing to a surprised and vexed John one of the paint cans.

"Know the author?"

The young expert viewed the photographs. "I recognise the paint" he shifted. "It's like Michigan…hard-core propellant. I'd say Zinc"

"What about the symbols? Do you recognise them?"

"I'm not even sure it's a proper language" he scrolled through the photographs again.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them" Sherlock stepped outside of his iced armour. The emotion in his voice – or better yet, the fact that there was emotion in his voice – spoke of more than professional interest in the game.

_Truly a chevalier…_Milo considered.

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz questioned. "It's hardly much, is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?"

Raz bit his lip and nodded, barely convinced. "I'll ask around"

"Somebody must know something about it" Sherlock argued.

"Oi!"

Milo dropped the cigarette and was off like a shot a split second before the shout. Sherlock grabbed his phone and was off as well with Raz on his footsteps. They split off at the end of the alley and Sherlock and Milo continued running until they nearly reached the exit to Charing Cross Road, where sketch artists peddled caricatures and portraits. She laughed between gasps and he looked entertained while catching his breath.

She turned around, looking at the nearby faces. "Where's John? Did he run?"

Sherlock looked around succinctly. "He'll catch up"

She sighed loudly, straightening and with a large grin on her face. "Alright, that was fun. What's next?"

He walked to the street and signalled for a black cab to stop.

"Tell me we're not taking a cab again" she groaned.

"Would you prefer jogging back?"

"I would. At least it would involve me actually doing more than sitting down. Besides, it's only four kilometres away if we go down Wardour" she grinned, almost itching for a light competition.

Catching the glint in her eye, Sherlock shook his head, his curls settling back on his forehead as messily as ever. "As much as I'd like to indulge in your athletic endeavours, people are dying"

Milo gave a sigh worthy of martyred suffering. "After you"

Barely half an hour later, she found herself doing something she hadn't imagined doing since she'd been a child regularly slapped on the wrist over a crooked 't'. And Sherlock suddenly looked much more menacing while pacing behind her.

The request had seemed so harmless: written versions of the code he was most interested in. When asked why he couldn't do them, he looked at her as if she had brain damage.

"I know my own handwriting" he answered like one would to a small child. "I would be biased"

And that was that.

It was really quite frightening how he'd suddenly morphed into her old calligraphy teacher.

"Sherlock" she stopped. "I can't write with you constantly over my shoulder. If you would please take a step back" she glared at him briefly, noting a sort of miffed look on his face before taking a step towards his mirror and looking at it instead.

"Thank you" she grunted and blew on the inky blots of code out of a forger's instinct. "I draw the line at drawing your little dancing men, however"

"That's fine" he muttered, adding the final page to the others. Paper after paper of copied polygraphic and transposition codes and ciphers being sorted and re-sorted into something only he could understand. There were vague dissimilarities, present in harshness, curliness and/or abrupt lines, but most symbols were continuous and non-flexible in their progression. They were fascinating to watch, taking up Sherlock's wall in various forms: from dancing men and Bangpo pottery symbols to scripts such as the Kharosti or Tamil…they all meant something to someone.

And it was his job to discover what one code meant using all the others as a backdrop. She was not envious of that.

Being so dismissed, she took her computer into her lap and sorted through the news her feed had found, most of them irrelevant or confusing.

One that was mildly interested was a hit from 2009, in Kowloon, of a murder behind closed doors. The translation from Cantonese to English was shaky at best, but he had been killed at one of the highest floors of a building, though it wasn't specified if the doors had been locked. No other details had been released whether on actual murder or the follow-up investigation.

The lack of details fit the environment and she knew that she couldn't get more details of it without an inside connection. Hong Kong had very little street crime and appeared calm, quiet, healthy and clean. No one wanted to point fingers at organized crime and really, it was hard to find. Most citizens wouldn't know much on it.

She passed onto local news, reading everything without discrimination. Somewhere between the London fashion week and some actress' new haircut, John entered the room as if he was stepping on needles. She instantly looked down, trying to contain her laughter.

Sherlock had no such predisposition. "You've been a while"

"Yeah, well, you know how it is" he started with visible anger in his steps, barely subdued underneath the mild exterior. He'd probably been stewing all the way home and that just made her want to laugh her. She bit her lip until she could almost taste the blood.

"Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities" he walked about the room. "Fingerprints, charge sheet and I've got to be in magistrates' court on Tuesday"

Milo was turning an unhealthy shade of red.

"What?" Sherlock asked disinterested, looking up at him through the mirror.

"Me, Sherlock! In court, on Tuesday. They're _giving me an ASBO!_"

"Good, fine" he punctuated every word with disinterest.

A snort slipped through and then Milo couldn't control herself anymore. She burst out laughing, bolstering and loud with an odd gasp here and there due to lack of air. She slid off her seat into a giggling mess on the floor.

"It's not funny" John protested which simply made her laugh harder, her pale face made vivid red with lack of air.

John paused in indignation, shook his head and moved on. "You want to tell your little friend he's welcome to go and own up any time"

With a final snort, Milo slapped a palm over her mouth, tears of laughter streaking down her face, still feeling as if she was suffocating.

"Oh cheer up, John. Women find danger attractive. Might get you laid" Milo said with a wide grin, wiping her red cheeks.

He glared at her in a way that such mild men usually didn't.

Sherlock slammed a book shut, drawing their attention, oblivious to whatever had been going on and without caring much for it. "This symbol, I still can't place it"

He jumped upon John who had started to take off his jacket and pushed it back on despite his protests. "No, I need you to go to the police station and ask about the journalist" he pushed his towards the door. "The personal effects will have been impounded. Get a hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements"

"Since you're so good with banks, you're coming with me" he nodded to her and tossed her the leather jacket, which hit her in the face when she raised her head, then grabbed his own coat.

"I'm so happy when I'm useful" she sighed and got dressed, following them out.

"We'll go and see Van Coon's PA" he settled his scarf and pulled out his gloves. "If you retrace their steps somewhere they'll coincide"

Without so much as a good bye (or good luck) he took to the right, fully expecting Milo to follow. Which she did, reluctantly and glaring at the back of his head the whole way.

She stuffed her hands into her pockets and kept up the pace, walking fast enough to keep up with Sherlock's long legs before he looked around carefully and called a cab.

The ride was silent, both caught in their own ideas. Sherlock was considering the case. In every case you started with a motive, which was either cash or something equally worth being threatened about. When the motive led to a wall, there was opportunity and means. Everyone who could have climbed could have, including the woman sharing the cab. They could have, but would they?

If she'd have killed someone, she wouldn't have sat around him, bored out of her mind, yet not even complaining. In a rare, unguarded moment she was watching the streets go by, long fingers, perfect for nimble actions, were toying unconsciously with a pair of rings on a black leather string. One was an engagement ring, delicate and minutely made out of a thread whose patina betrayed platinum, crowned with a marquise cut pink diamond of perfect refraction angle, surrounded by smaller colourless ones. The other was a simple wedding ring, a straight band made out of the same metal.

He did not immediately dismiss them as another person's. If her husband had died, she would have kept them. Even if he was alive and still attached, a criminal hid such details. On the other hand, her careful attention to the jewellery from the previous day indicated, if nothing else, a penchant for matching jewellery and clothes and pink diamonds –expensive and rare – were not something she'd have worn with her usual dress of torn baggy jeans and worn leather.

That would have had to be a mystery for another day, he thought as the cab pulled in beside Shad Sanderson and she hid the necklace under her clothes.

"What?" Sherlock asked at Milo's purposeful gaze.

"Be careful not to scare her. PAs know much more than people can guess"

"Scare her?" he asked indignantly.

"You tend to come off just a tad…well" she paused as they entered the building. "Scary, basically"

"_I _look scary?" he pressed.

"You act scary" she tossed him a look. "Would you prefer it if I told you that you look like your brother on a warpath?"

He glared in a way that much resembled Mycroft on a warpath.

"Then let's stick to scary, shall we?" she smiled innocently.

She could almost feel him containing a tantrum all the way up to their designated floor and grinned. It was like having children.

In no way was the secretary surprised by their visit.

She was a nice blonde, slightly passed her naïve youthful age but in a way that didn't impend her attractiveness. She had the sort of allure a woman would get with experience and hard work. Her curves were displayed in a business-like fashion, her hair strictly bound and her make-up nearly non-existent, girly jewellery, non-ostentatious, stylish watch though non-expensive. The shoes – a general staple by which you can easily deduce a woman's character – were surprisingly sensible.

Milo liked her, which was a shame, as the fact that she slept with her boss was just as evident as the self-sufficient part of her personality. She looked at her face while Sherlock introduced himself and tried to determine if it was for love, money or a simple meaningless relationship that was easier for two people working together for long hours because it kept them from going to the bar around the corner for a quick one.

After seeing his apartment, it was clear most of the relationship happened at her place, in between hurried flights or meetings. Lack of attention or care would have been enough to cool any woman's heart, no matter the attraction, which explained the sort of impassive look she was displaying.

She remembered clearly what the other bankers had gossiped about him: money, behaviour, drinking habits. None had mentioned women.

'_So what was his angle_?' she asked herself.

"If we could have a look at his schedule." Sherlock said, hands behind his back, surprisingly subdued for one gathering important facts.

"Of course" she said, noting Milo's eyes on her and tapping at her computer for the schedule.

"Here it is. Flew back from Dalian, Friday"

"He was only there for one day?" Milo asked, trying to remember Dalian.

It was impossible to get there without stops somewhere and depending on those, it took anywhere from sixteen to thirty hours. Even with that very limited time frame, you could do a lot…especially if you timed your stops perfectly. The cities were as diverse as the airlines, Beijing, Hangzhou, Brussels or Seoul.

"Without counting the trip, yes…" she looked at Milo inquisitively but she remained silent.

"After that?" Sherlock pursued.

"Um, looks like he had back to back meetings with the sales team" she continued.

"Can you print me up a copy?" he asked.

"Sure" she gave the command.

"What about the day he died, can you tell me where he was?" he pointed to the screen.

"Sorry. I've got a gap"

That itself looked strange on a schedule that had three to six tasks per day, who took to even documenting training and _lunch_. Sherlock tapped his hand on the desk lightly, slightly disappointed.

"I have all his receipts" she came to his aid. He looked at her almost gleefully.

"Can I stay and look over this for a bit?" Milo pointed to the computer.

"Of course" she answered and led Sherlock to her desk.

Milo sat down and summarily rifled through the folders. Usual reports, papers, uninteresting business discussions…a pdf of an electronic ticket caught her eye. She printed it out and collected the papers in time to join the pulling out of receipts, many and diverse as it was fitting for someone who treasured money so much that it seemed unthinkable to buy lunch without putting it on the company bill.

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?" Sherlock asked as if he was interested. He had, most likely, formed his own opinion so far as had she.

"Um, no" she laughed as if the notion amused her, with a hint of awkwardness that turned into subdued bitterness. "That's not a word I'd use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag"

Sherlock sat down, his eyes rummaging over the desk. "Like that hand cream. He bought that for you, didn't he?"

She looked at him, surprised, but didn't answer, anticipating more questions or perhaps a comment. She didn't get one. He didn't seem to have anything to comment on and simply had for…Milo couldn't put a finger on it. To let her know he knew? Perhaps.

It was on the verge of scaring her though and she elbowed him gently with a smirk.

He only looked at her briefly before continuing to rifle through the papers.

"Look at this one" he extended it to Amanda. "Got a taxi from him on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty"

"That would get him to the office…" she said.

"Not rush hour" he continued rifling, putting each paper in order by time frame. "Check the time. Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him to as far as…"

"The West End!" she interjected. "I remember him saying…"

He looked carefully at what looked like a Tube pass and gave it to her again. Milo wondered if only giving them to her meant that he knew she couldn't read it without a headache or if it was payback for the scary comment. She carefully assume the former simply to keep her good mood.

"Underground, printed at one in Piccadilly"

"So he got a Tube back to the office…" she said in a questioning tone. "Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?"

"Because he was delivering something heavy" he answered as a fact

_Or to lose someone_, Milo thought.

"You wouldn't lug a package up the escalator" he continued.

"Delivering?" Amanda asked, confused. She was still amazingly grounded despite her employer's death and their grilling, even trying to make sense of it all. She was wasted as a PA.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station. Dropped the package, delivered it, and then…" he got up holding a receipt with a look that indicated that was his winning lotto ticket. "…stopped on his way"

He raised his head with sudden realisation of something important. "He got peckish"

Milo raised an eyebrow. He was definitely scaring _her_.

"Thank you, Amanda" he grabbed the receipts and flew to the corridor.

"Is he …always like this?" the PA asked her.

"For as long as I've known him" Milo grinned.

"Are you two-"

"_No_" she shook her head vehemently.

"Oh"

"Thanks" she nodded towards everything and ran after the detective, leaving the confused woman behind.

She barely squeezed through the elevator doors as they were closing and stole the receipt out of Sherlock's hands.

"What could he have been carrying?" she asked. "And who the hell eats five croissants in one go…" she continued to herself.

"I don't know. Something important" he snatched it back.

"Something important and heavy. That fits in a suitcase. Probably worth a lot, judging by the outcome. I'm drawing a blank" she scratched the back of her head.

"You can't think of anything heavy, expensive and the size of a suitcase?" he raised his eyebrow.

"Plenty of those, just none an ordinary banker might touch. They might play around with millions, but that's hardly their lunch money is it? And judging by his apartment, Van Coon was more of a modern-bare approach"

"You're thinking art" he nodded.

"Well unless he's smuggling a number of computer parts that would rival a fabrication plant or the British Library, I'm thinking something close to art. And not a painting either. Statuettes, vases, plates, collector alcohol like wines…maybe even ingots of well, platinum, gold…maybe rhodium. Fair warning, though. If we find rhodium ingots, I don't care who got killed for them, I'm keeping it"

She got a look. She offended something fundamental of the Holmes men and she had no idea what. It surely wasn't common sense. Neither had much of _that_.

"What is at Piccadilly station that drew his attention…?" he asked himself.

"Ripley's Believe it or Not?" she asked. "No, wait. Platinum Lace Gentleman's Club!" she stated, loudly, just as the doors opened, earning them both some curious glances.

"Do you have nothing intelligent to say on the matter or are you doing this just to annoy me?" he asked in an irascible tone.

"See, the fact that you're asking that means you know what I'm talking about. Have you ever been inside that club? Was it fun?" she rebutted somewhat hyperactively, a telltale of either drugs or a good day. "I bet it was fun"

He rolled his eyes and started walking faster.

* * *

**A/N: **I will be redoing some of the earlier chapters (before the Blind Banker starts) so if you guys only read the newest chapters, you can check them out sometime for something a tad different and maybe some clarifications on my own characters. I appreciate feedback... and seeing as I've gotten some PMs, that works perfectly too.

I have been asked this question though: is this going to be a romance? Maybe. Their relationship so far is that neither trust each other or even likes the other much. Sherlock just doesn't care if someone else hangs around as long as it's not a distraction or too annoying and if Mycroft found her useful, he could too, John goes with the flow and Milo likes the action and the fact that she's not bored. Milo was written originally for a much _much_ darker setting but even there she was a hedonist so while sex wouldn't be her problem, sticking around after would be. Sherlock doesn't seem the type for casual relationships and doesn't see her as complex enough to be interesting. She thinks he's a bit of a childish nut that's too much like his brother to be of any real interest. That will eventually change so, yes there might be room for romance. Of course, she is also a massive hypocrite and a compulsive liar so anything she says is to be doubted. Mycroft knows this, Sherlock will soon learn…

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Coda**

* * *

"_Never hide things from hardcore thinkers. They get more aggravated, more provoked by confusion than the most painful truths."__ ~ Criss Jami_

* * *

While in a cab, Milo had often thought Sherlock was going to jump out of the car, fingers tapping perhaps Novacek's Perpetuum Mobile on an imaginary violin and eyes twitching almost epileptically, trying to notice everything at once, she never thought that he would actually _do_ it.

The cab was slowing down gently, approaching a crossing, which she was thankful for, or else she could have imagined him rolling out like some sort of British John McClane, cars started exploding in the background, as cars are wont to do.

She was too shocked to realize he'd left her inside and that he'd left her to pay and the cabbie was too shocked to point it out. She snapped out of it, finally, and handed over British pound bills she had left – which competed with rupees, Euros, dollars and dirham, all jiggling in her pockets – starting to miss John's presence on whom _she_ could walk out on. As she got out of the cab, she apologized to driver, who didn't know what he'd done wrong and would probably never find out.

She didn't take the time to explain that her companion had probably been dropped on the head too many times as a child or that there was probably some leftover trauma from his days of actually living with someone like Mycroft that would only be healed by jumping out of moving vehicles.

Such was the way their quest for the fabled Italian Espresso Bar started: with Sherlock's unnecessary risk-taking and Milo's headache.

There was a multitude of bars, restaurants, cafes, so many you could get lost in, most changing from year to year without notice due to silly things like rent or profits. In the confusion of him twirling and taking up most of the sidewalk, she relieved a pair of onlookers of their candy bars: a Double Decker and two Starbars. She unwrapped one and started chewing thoughtfully.

Milo, professional tourist, despised attracting attention in any shape or form. It didn't matter if she was in Bangkok, Beijing, Bauchi or Boston, the sentiment was the same: fit in at all cost. And they didn't. If her usual silent, almost unseen presence could be compared to careful, almost mathematically calculated steps of minuet, Sherlock Morris danced.

Complete with little bells.

Someone was bound to pay attention and that someone might have been their mysterious climber. While he didn't seem to care, she liked having a limited number of holes to breathe through.

In the end, that was what determined her to help. If someone was running circles around them, it was best to cut straight through it. Van Coon wouldn't have walked off his path to the Underground for too long and wouldn't have had to. Which meant they had to circle around the station for one place that sold coffee in London. Where there were as many fast food restaurants and café bars per square mile as there were man-sized rodents in Disneyland.

Eventually, the fact that she'd been without caffeine for over four hours, a keen nose undeterred by years of smoking, the coffee snob inside her and a brain permanently set to overload, made her pick up the smell of roasted coffee beans (instead of the instant coffee abomination) over the scent of everything else in the city.

"Hey!" she called for Sherlock, who had chosen the opposite direction, and nodded towards the little spot of heaven that sold stimulating beverages. "I think this is the only 'Piazza' espresso bar in town" she muttered. "This is pretty hopeless, you know. Even with this place, you still have two directions he could have come from" she pocketed the wrapper from the candy bar and started another. "And there are a lot of side streets in those two directions. You're basically walking blind"

She looked at him when he didn't answer. "You're not even listening to me, are you?" she sighed and continued eating, following at a safe distance, listening in to him muttering to himself.

"…so you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from? Where did the taxi drop you?"

Milo cringed as his twirl resulted into an unfortunate collision to an unsuspecting pedestrian and then sighed in relief as he turned out to be John. The day had been a babysitting job that wouldn't end and brilliant though the man was, she wondered how he'd stayed alive up to that moment.

She grinned blissfully when John determined the shop. "Lukis' diary. He was here, too. He wrote down the address" he explained and started to walk ahead.

"…Oh" Sherlock muttered and followed, for once.

"John, you're like a breeze in a torrid afternoon" she smiled at him.

"What?"

"Nothing. Candy bar?" she offered.

The stop was the Lucky Cat Emporium. Like any thrift or souvenir shop anywhere around the world: Bucharest, San Francisco, Amsterdam … everywhere she'd been, there were these little shops with expensive kitsch items sold as the real thing: lucky cats, coins hanging on red silk, tea sets, Chinese horoscope signs, cheaply made fans and everything smelled of sandal wood scented sticks. _Everything_.

The smell clouded her senses. Smoke smeared the air in its ascension and she was suddenly very much aware of all the movement her jacket made, the silent rustle of her jeans, the bend of her boots.

She hated incense.

The shop was manned by a Chinese lady, who most likely pretended she didn't speak proper English even though she probably knew its intricacies better than the native speakers.

Little boxes of mother of pearl with squeaky hinges and easily broken lock, Buddha statues and statuettes, jade figurines not actually made out of jade, incense vases and wooden trays…everything simply pointing to the fact that none were made all that well and didn't deserve the money that was asked for them. Statuettes were not supposed to be made in a mould, pine was not the appropriate wood for a box and the maneki-neko – Lucky Cat, Welcoming Cat, Money cat – was Japanese, not Chinese so there was probably some false advertising right there.

But there was something…something very wrong about it. She walked to the back of the store, where an array of masks and jewellery were hung on a bamboo rug.

She picked up a pearl necklace of decidedly pour freshwater pearls, dyed and strung together without hiding the defects. There was nothing there to point to anything but a store selling poor items to rich fools.

So why was there a box of Pu'er tea hiding behind the counter? _Sheng Cha_ Pu'er tea, no less. Aged. While not brewed and tasted – the normal means of determining quality – it was undeniably better than anything in the shop was. The smooth smell with just a hint of bitterness was delicious enough to be sensed over the powerful incense, through the brown paper.

Only a couple of years back, the tea was worth more than its weight in gold. Smugglers all around the world had carefully measured supplies just enough to never reach the number of demands. Over-saturation was the death of business after all.

And there were few enough connoisseurs in the world to determine the tea by scent and none she knew would spend more than two seconds in such a place.

Milo's eyes caught the woman's eye. It was imperceptible, but she thought that she saw a jolt. In a second, another atrocious cat hid the tea from her sight.

"You want Lucky Cat?" she offered, putting the cat in her face, whose left paw dangled back and forth. Each element represented something; left paw attracted monetary gain or customers, the right protection or luck. Gold body and gold bell for good fortune, gold coin for wealth…

Milo owned a white one with both paws raised and a gold bell, purchased at the Imado Jinja Shrine in Asakusa, where she had also played with the living maneki-neko and its mate.

John refused first with Sherlock shaking his head second.

"Ten pound! Ten pound…"

"No…" John sketched an awkward smile.

"I think your wife" she looked at Milo. "She will like"

Milo gave a thin smile, walking closer to John. She knew. She knew that there was something wrong with the customers who didn't look like they were there to buy anything.

"Um…maybe" he answered and looked at Milo questioningly. The blonde did nothing in return but glance back at the saleswoman.

Then John picked up a teacup and looked at its bottom. They exchanged a glance.

"Sherlock" he stated, showing him the sign. "The label there…"

"Yes, I see it" the detective whispered sternly, not during at it directly.

"It's exactly the same as the cipher" John detailed and Milo sunk her short, but sharp, nails into his hand, shushing him at the questioning gaze.

She couldn't get out of the place fast enough and their enthusiasm did little to calm her down.

"It's an ancient number system. Suzhou" Sherlock elaborated for their benefit, his mind, no doubt, racing at the speed of light. "These days only street traders use it"

"Or very traditional handwritten invitations and messages" Milo completed, resisting the urge to look back. "It's all very formal. They used to be part of the local transportation markers but the 90's was the end to that and they switched to Arabic"

"There were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library" Sherlock raved and started to rummage through the turnips of a random merchant.

"It's a fifteen" John said, enthused by the knowledge. "What we thought was the artist tag was a number fifteen!"

"And the blindfold, the horizontal line, that was a number as well" he showed the price of the turnips with a satisfied smile before taking off. "Chinese number one, John"

"We found it!" John said with an increasingly pleased tone and a smile.

No, they didn't realize where they'd been. They didn't realize anything. Milo put her head down and fought the urge to pull her hood over her head. The hair was covering her face as she looked at her shoes, rhythmically going back and forth and the bottom of Sherlock's coat, which she was following.

They needed a plan – one a tad more detailed than Sherlock's bull rush through clues – and they needed one fast. She wondered if Mycroft would have held their deal over her head…keeping his brother from meeting an untimely end was more of a job than she anticipated.

"I think we need an edge" she said, practically without thinking when the two sat at an uncomfortable tables in a dinner right out front the Lucky Cat emporium. She didn't notice the word 'we' which should have been a sign of how far she was going…

"An edge?" John asked. "What edge?"

She frowned, shaking off the hair that had gotten into her face. It seemed like she was making thoughtless motions, without control. She realised what she was doing only halfway through her actions and motions. It showed in a distorted, sudden gestures, interrupted or with an unexpected finale.

She leaned on the table when a pair of tourists passed by the window. A large man took pictures of everything and more, as if the trees were somehow different wherever he came from. The woman was tapping away on her phone. Two children were founding their own amusement, pointing and jumping around.

She walked out of the place and dodged their step at every turn. All she needed was an extra moment of their carelessness, not hard considering how little they were paying attention. She took the boy's cap for twenty quid and offered twenty more if they went inside the Emporium and broke something. Small children, with a flicker of mischief in the eyes and cash in their pockets, agreed instantly.

Besides, children, much to her dismay, had always liked Milo.

The two walked ahead, closely shadowed. She danced away without drawing attention, into the backroom, behind the red curtain while the two dropped a Buddha head to the ground. There was a small hallway parting in two, one towards a staircase the other to a door. She took the staircase down and through the door.

There was a keypad but keypads are easy. The ceramic stiletto flashed in her hands and carefully undid all the small screws before slipping the thin blade between the plastic cover and door and lightly pushing. She put the blade in her mouth, careful not to cut herself and pried open the case.

It would have been less visible if she'd have guessed the combination, more efficient if she'd have stolen the bypass key, more intelligent to hack it using routine brute forcing, but she had too little time to bother with details. The lock was opened with the correct combination of impulses but activate the mechanism alone…

The lock opened. She carefully replaced the case and closed the door silently.

Inside, what looked like the eyes of a million lucky cats were staring at her, hands gently beckoning at her…

She paused for just a second. Her eyes peeked at the exit. She'd been in worse places.

The first and last time she'd ever been terrified during a job was while she was young and stupid, breaking into a corporation with bodyguards and guns. It mattered little that those bodyguards were human beings and filling an adolescent with lead was not really something they would have wanted on their conscience, to Milo they'd been the boogieman. Since then, there'd been a whole medley of odd places, not in the least the mother of all haunted hotel rooms, the Tower of London and a scary, humid castle in Ireland, all rumoured to be at the top of the list for ghostly tours.

So many eyes, even painted ones, were still creepy and unsettling.

Outside, the tourists had finally found their children. Arguments escalated. At one point, one of the children started to wail and sob.

She grinned.

The desks, filled with paper were surgically rummaged through, moving nothing without it being replaced immediately. Most of them were in Cantonese, betraying the connection of the lady to the Guangdong province, Hong Kong or Macao, where it was lingua franca, while others were in perfect English. Her broken Mandarin helped little on the Cantonese ones – the important ones – but she could hint at what happened. Something was missing; shipments had stopped. Sherlock and John could have waited until dawn came, no one with a suitcase would arrive.

At least, she hoped they were waiting.

In the first drawer, various receipts were written out by what looked like local names, in the second, she found more tea. The third held various small packages without a label. Stashed in a corner were joss sticks – the expensive kind that reached up to hundreds of dollars outside of China – and to the back, bird's nest. If the entire shop was a front, it was obvious that its main business were not creepy Japanese felines. It was probably one of the better known secrets in the community, like some sort of common fixer, providing expensive Chinese luxuries to anyone who could pay…

She stopped suddenly. There were sounds of very silent footsteps coming from the stairs…footsteps nonetheless.

She sat on the floor and slid under the desk, behind crates, when it the little hand of one of those damned cats caught on her hood. It seemed to fall in slow motion, the herald of her doom, when her instincts, faster than her wits, made her catch it inches off the ground and cradle it just as the keypad beeped its successful numerical sequence and the door opened.

The woman entered the back room and headed straight for the desk. She was swearing, by tone and intonation and Milo didn't need to speak Cantonese to understand. She spent her moments there another head from a crate. She was almost out the door, and Milo almost breathed again when the phone rang.

A tirade was unleashed; the woman angry with the kids and annoyed at whomever had called was clearly not afraid of dealing with the person on the phone – underling, perhaps – before a tone of understanding fell. The person was relating something interesting. And the lady was telling her something interesting back. She wondered if keeping Sherlock safe and Mycroft satisfied was worth punching and interrogating an old woman. It probably wasn't but if she had to stay crouched between a box of lucky cats and a crate of even larger lucky cats one more time…

The woman wrapped up the conversation and grabbed her keys, leaving the Buddha there. The door clicked as it shut, then the door of the store, as all the lights went out, and then silence.

Milo crawled out and looked around.

She grinned as she slipped out through the previous locked window of the basement.

* * *

Sherlock breathed heavily as he looked down.

His throat hurt less than his pride, but somewhere inside him, excitement brewed enough to stew over. It was a note written on any piece of paper the author had had in his pocket, a note written out of necessity, not plan. Someone had meant to find the owner of the flat at home.

"We can start with this" he breathed out, voice raw.

"You're getting all croaky. Are you getting a cold?" John asked, reliable but oblivious.

He coughed once more, managing an "I'm fine"

His steps were growing steadily more confident and he fixed his scarf on principle.

"Hey!" came a shout from the left and they turned to see Emilia running towards them, ponytail flying behind her like a tattered flag, for once, her cheeks red like ripened apples. "There you are" she breathed heavily and fell into step with them. "I've been looking all over. Why didn't you stay at the dinner?"

"Sherlock found something" John supplied, rapidly accustomed to another presence to their duo, without pretending to hide the fact that staying outside the house had miffed him.

She looked at him carefully, walking ahead. A cold finger tapped his skin, right under the chin, where he'd been grabbed before Sherlock swatted her hand away as if she were an annoying type of fly.

"I'm sure he has" she muttered and reached into her pocket before proffering a calico lucky cat with its right paw up. "Here. You might need it more than I do"

"Did you really pay ten pounds for that?" John asked, sceptical, looking at the cat whose hand seemed to have passed by beckoning and into vigorous stabbing.

"Define pay…" she said as Sherlock took it out of curiosity more than intent at adoption.

"You stole it?" he asked, incredulously, the thought of anyone stealing that _thing_ was not only impossible but bordering insanity.

"Well…you could say it fell heads over heels for me and I felt too ashamed to reject it. What can I say? I'm adorable" she grinned childishly. "Where to now, Master Detective?" she asked, invigorated, going ahead and grabbing a cab.

Her grin only bloomed at the sight of the Museum name.

* * *

A photograph was placed in a manila envelope, ready for delivery without stamps and a great deal more meaningful than simple mail.

As soon as the envelope in question was handed over, a piece of paper was given away.

When it was opened, its holder smiled.

The man who had received the envelope, however, had been smiling all along.

* * *

"-hardly easy but compared to some of the art galleries in the area, a piece of cake. In terms of exhibitions, it's certainly unique but hardly interesting or new. The same things you could eventually spot at the V and A or British Museum. The thing that sets it apart is the niche interest scene" Milo finished as she climbed up the steps.

"I read about the activities there. Haven't been since I was a kid" John replied, only half-interested. He'd visited more tourist locations that week than he'd had since he was a child and they were starting to blur together.

"Yes, more recently the interest was sparked when Christie's sold an impressive piece of the Qianlong vase for over two million quid" Milo continued talking. "It followed with Lady Hartwell, offering items from a private collection to the Museum. Meanwhile, in a gallery in Hong Kong, some items were stolen. No one really knows who. I suspect either some inside job or a personal investment in the museum to help it" she smiled charmingly to the security guard who opened the door in her path.

"Why would that help?" he asked, opening his own door.

"Why would it not? It sparks interest, which I suspect was the point. Besides, like I said, unless you have some private buyer, you're basically stuck with the thing. Even if you find a fence stupid enough to take it, you only get a fraction of what it's worth unless you pawn it off back to the museum. Besides, the antique market has always, _always_ been unstable"

She felt like floating, like an animal in its natural habitat, alongside ancient, valuable things. Her eyes instinctively looked at the CCTV and guards before smiling at them charmingly. They hadn't improved the security since she'd last been. She took one of the booklets and browsed it while Sherlock asked for _Andy_ at the front desk. There were some nice pieces on display, but none that would fit in a pocket, or at least…_her_ pocket. The only thing that truly caught her eye was a golden dragon hairpin…

But it wasn't the time.

Sherlock paced while Andy Galbraith was fetched by a guard.

A small man, in more ways than one. He emanated a beta male aura, unthreatening and utterly harmless displaying a kicked puppy look. He seemed uncertain and unsure, careful not to commit an imprudence, somehow. The sort of man who didn't know what to do with his hands, so they were permanently in his pocket.

"Yes?" he asked carefully, almost unconsciously making himself look smaller, especially around Sherlock, who was threatening. He may not have realized it, he might not have intended it, but he was too _awake _to be harmless. His observational skills had a frightening side, like he was always watching you, half an inch under the skin. It was more than that, he was unsettling.

And it was that type of a moment where she felt that Sherlock was a character in a show directed by somebody else and that he expected everyone to follow the script, the inflections, the motions without sharing his expectations. A circus with untrained marionettes.

It was one way of describing it, seeing as how blunt he was towards the man whose eyes started to sparkle when the name Soo Lin Yao was mentioned. The boy was in love, utterly, tremendously, irrevocably in love with the woman and any thought of danger towards her was enough to moisten his eyes and poof out his chest. It was a strange combination of confidence and utter helplessness that only evoked a sense of pity.

It was out of that pity that she intervened.

"The landlord manifested an interest when he noticed that she hadn't answered her door yesterday or today" she explained, gently, as if calming a startled animal. "We're trying to get a sense at what happened and saw this letter. We thought you might help" she pointed to the piece of paper in Sherlock's hand.

"Uh, alright. Who are you?" he looked from one to another.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and I'm Emilie Crenshaw"

"I'm Andy- Andrew Galbraith …but I guess you knew that" he glanced towards the front desk. "Uh…I guess I could show you what she did? Would that help?"

"Yes, yes of course. Thank you" she followed in his tracks.

The exhibition was Chinese utensils. She stopped to peer at two large spoons that were as large as Milo's hand and wondered what that might have been used for, besides spanking children and husbands. Two marble Foo Dogs guarded them, which she didn't think warranted their presence there. The jade little figurines were interesting but irrelevant to their expensive tastes.

She did not see the hairpin she'd liked.

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Sherlock asked, looking at each exhibit.

"Three days ago" Andy answered in a small voice, standing up straight like a man up for military inspection. "Here at the museum. This morning they told me she'd resigned. Just like that" he shrugged lightly, not being able to understand it. "Left her work unfinished"

"What was the last thing she did on her final afternoon?" Sherlock finished his inspection and turned to the man.

Andy looked down and up before deciding. "Follow me"

Renewed with purpose, he walked down into the bowels of the museum, where few were allowed, nodding to the security guard who let them by.

It was ridiculously easy to get in there, but then, there was hardly anything worth stealing. Andy turned on the lights of a long, dark corridor filled with pieces under restoration and her eyes naturally set out to find the cameras.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists, a-a tea ceremony" Andy explained. "So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here" he looked towards a line of doors hiding tightly packed drawers.

Then she saw it, noting that Sherlock did too.

The statue wasn't a huge loss to the world of art, but the act made her skin crawl regardless. At least the painting that had been blinded was hideous.

"What's that?" Andy asked, looking at all three of them in sequence, seeing their expression. "Does it have anything to do with Soo Lin?"

Milo touched Sherlock's hand lightly. At his gaze, she pointed upwards and to the sides. "No cameras"

It was worth being emphasised, even if he had noticed it. It was a safe place and yet so obvious. And it just happened to be free of the Eye in the Sky.

"Don't worry, we'll find her" John assured the man.

Milo wasn't so sure anymore.

* * *

**A/N**: The numeric system's name is Suzhou, and it's not a dialect. I figured I might as well write them properly.

Thank you for reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**Bulls and Cows**

* * *

_We live as we die, and die as we live ~ Edward Counsel, "__Maxims"_

* * *

"Let's split up, gang!"

The thought was hilarious.

There was a serial killer out there who'd probably taken a shine to Sherlock, it was dark, the area was completely void of human presence and they were employing tactics out of a 70's cartoon, each headed into a different direction. They seemed to do that often.

The South Bank Skate Park was limited in range, but the tracks stretched for miles, with enough empty walls around to be able to rewrite 'War and Peace' across. It was as deserted as an urban environment could be, buildings popping up in the horizon, but it might as well have been the Mojave.

She used her phone as a flashlight to look around, offering more light than small flashlights and more reliability. The garish sort of yellow should have been obvious, but there wasn't much of it around. Walls were covered completely with posters or street tags, colourful but unimpressive.

She ignored the sense of familiarity; the Skate Park had been around since the seventies and as a kid, she spent enough time drinking, smoking and having fun there. All of her former friends were gone now, replaced by younger versions with the same attitude and same dreams. The idea that it had hid smuggling rings, graffiti, murderers right under their nose simply put another patina of grime on her memories.

"Come out, come out wherever you are..." she muttered to herself to break off the silence. It would have been the perfect spot to be ambushed and a part of her was wishing for it, whether for the excitement or so that the feeling of pending danger eased.

She flinched when one of her other phones – the ones she tossed away with impunity – rang.

"Hello?"

"Milo, hey. I found something" John's voice. "An entire wall of this stuff"

"That's great" She looked around and turned to run in the opposite direction. "I'm coming your way. Did you call Sherlock?"

"Yeah, he's not picking up" he said in a mix of irritation and the rush of the discovery.

"Typical. I'm coming to you now, just keep talking" she looked around, half-running into the direction John had gone off to, guided by sound and common sense. You could see quite from one spot, train tracks clear and shiny in the city lights. They looked like edges of a guillotine without a purpose.

"Er…what do you want me to say?" he asked, and she could picture him stopping right there and thinking about it.

"Don't make me ask you to sing" she smirked to herself. "Just describe the wall"

"Oh. Well, there are the signs, same paint. There's a lot more of them. A _lot_ more"

She could see him, in the distance, looking around, turning in circles and her feet picked up speed. "Hey" she greeted and shut her phone. "Took a picture?"

"Yeah. Let's go find Sherlock"

They didn't speak more, just ran towards the direction the man had gone in, looking around.

"Don't shout for him. You don't know who's around" she warned.

"What? You think the killer is here?" he looked suddenly more on the edge.

"I don't know if it's the killer or someone who works with him. Let's just keep calling him…and draw as little attention as possible". He fumbled with his phone and did so.

She might as well have said 'moonwalk up to Hell and back and convince Mycroft to do the Thriller'. There were two of them, bright lights ahead, running on gravel, each little stone making its own sounds as it fell back. Alone, she might have had less of a presence, but she was sure they weren't alone. It wasn't the time to teach a soldier how to act like a thief and she was never a very good teacher.

It was easier to walk into danger and improvise than run from it.

They found Sherlock, somewhere between cars. Professional deformity reared its head, making her look for a place to duck into. She'd lost long ago the sense of comfort in open spaces; a beach was a great place to get shot in, unless you dived and not very good for hiding, parks best avoided, anything bright, without a shadow to crawl into made her burst into hives. She was born with the complexion of a ghost – genetic inheritance from both parents – but a lifetime of skulking into shadows had rendered her transparent.

"Answer your phone! I've been calling you!" John shouted, slightly out of breath. "I found it!" he stopped for a moment, before Sherlock started running with them.

Two people with lights and tossed gravel had turned into three. It didn't really matter, seeing as their followers were ahead and not behind. The wall was dark.

"It's been painted over" John said, taken aback. "I don't…understand. It was…" he dabbed a finger on it. "…here. 10 minutes ago. I saw it" he stepped back, as if doubting his own words.

She put her fingers lightly on it and then ground the slightly wet paint into her fingertips.

"A whole load of graffiti" John continued.

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it…" Sherlock suddenly grabbed John's head.

"Do you want a room?" Milo smirked. She was ignored.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"Ssh! John, concentrate! I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes"

"What? Why? Why? What are you doing?" he asked through closed eyes. Milo held in laughter, thinking that the man had more confidence in the detective than in himself. She would have thrown a punch already.

And then they started twirling and Milo had to reign in her snorts.

_Here we go round the prickly pear…prickly pear prickly pear, _she recited in her mind, Sherlock being admittedly less pear-shaped, but fairly prickly.

"I need you to maximise your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah"

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely"

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How much can you remember it?"

"Look, don't worry-"

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate!"

"Well, don't worry. I remember _all of it_"

"Really?" Sherlock asked in a doubtful, somewhat mocking tone.

John broke free. "Well, at least I would, if I could get to my pockets!" he rummaged through his jacket. "I took a photograph"

He showed it, then moved to go. Sherlock looked at him, then at the phone.

Milo snorted. "Cue awkward silence... Ah…I knew there was a reason I hung around" she shook her head, chuckling and going ahead. "Come on, I need coffee"

She didn't ended up having it. Continuing with the theme of awkward silence, the cab ride was sullen, not ending nearly fast enough and suddenly void of adrenaline. Milo and John exchanged commiserating looks while Sherlock was still analysing the photograph. It was still early, if one were to judge that by time. Not early enough to still be light out, but early for those who wanted more than to sneak into their beds and wake up for another day to the grind. All things considered, however, neither had much sleep and if that motivated Sherlock, John was more selfish than that.

He liked to sleep every night and eat every day and that was probably not something that was going to change.

At the flat, Milo fell back into the sofa and John took a seat at the desk. He didn't know how long he sat there.

He leaned on his elbow, his eyes dropping, regularly dozing off. It was quiet and after the events of the day, boring. Sherlock talking to himself in hushed tones and round phrases was simply background noise, low and almost soothing like a mathematical lullaby. And he was tired enough to stop himself from feeling discomfort at his sitting position.

"Always in pairs, John, look"

His reverie was broken and he tried to wake himself up.

"Numbers…come with partners"

John didn't really care. "God, I should seriously get some sleep" he muttered to himself, looking around. Milo had fallen asleep on the sofa seat, hair in face, chin to her chest, clutching what looked like his coat similar to a child hugging a bear, and breathing softly. How he wished he could be in her place instead. Sherlock's papers took up the rest of the space around her, photographs of the murder scenes providing morbid contrast.

"Why did he paint it so near to the tracks?"

"No idea" he replied, only half listening to what his flatmate was saying, conscious that he was saying something. "Just twenty minutes…" he leaned back into his hand, waiting for that sweet bliss of complete and utter pea-

"We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao!"

He looked up. Sherlock was leaving. Something was happening. He wasn't getting any sleep soon. "Oh, good" he muttered.

Milo flinched when he tried to get his jacket and then looked to where Sherlock had started skipping – and he was skipping instead of walking like a normal person – out the door.

"How much did I sleep?" she asked in a groggy voice. Her hair seemed to have fixed itself into wavy curls, her eyes were clear and her skin looked fresh. He wished he looked as good when waking up, then the thought started to sound odd, even to him.

"Couple of hours. Come on. Sherlock has something" he put on his coat and she followed, slipping hers on.

"That's the other thing. Why is he so chipper?"

"He didn't sleep"

"That is _not_ a reason" she responded as if he was insane.

He grunted non-committedly. By the time they exited into the cool London night, they were far more awake then they had been at the start of the stairs.

In under an hour, Andy – who hadn't left the museum yet and didn't appear to want that – knew everything. Milo had had enough of the pity, Sherlock of lack of information and John had simply had enough.

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered" Sherlock insisted, tone betraying his impatience and irritation. "And their killer left a message in Suzhou numerals"

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger" John completed. "That cipher, it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well" …which wasn't something he should have said.

Milo wouldn't have said it and wouldn't have enjoyed it being said to her. He was a museum curator, not a criminal, not a cop, not someone who knew what to do and when. But she stayed back, staring at her boot-clad feet, wishing she was barefoot and thinking about how much easier her own job was by comparison. Was it even worth it, catching criminals?

She'd never ran from place to place as often as they had. She'd never had to deal with a lot of people, depended on them for a testimony or information. A lot of her work had been done in her house or hotel, studying blueprints, drinking coffee and eating cake, walking around naked and content, sleeping at all hours if she wanted to. Why would anyone want to hunt down the villains instead of being one?

Andy brought his hand to his head, thinking under pressure at what happened and what could happen. "Look, I've tried everywhere: friends, colleagues. I don't know where she's gone. I mean…she could be a thousand miles away" he pocketed his hands again.

"What are you looking at?" John asked, noting Sherlock's expression. Milo turned.

"Tell me more about those teapots" he got close.

"The pots were her obsession. They need urgent work" he walked close and explained as it had been explained to him. "If they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you just have to keep making tea in them"

"Chinese teapots don't have glazing" Milo tossed into the conversation from the distance she sat in. "Yixing clay, I assume?" Andy nodded and she looked back at the imaginary hole she was digging with her feat. "Not having any glazing means that they can absorb traces of the tea, giving it a more complex flavour over time. Caring for a pot means allowing the tea oils to be absorbed for that glossy patina. Rain, sun and wind tends to crumble them" she shrugged under their look.

"How do you know that?" John asked, tinted with disbelief.

"I've been to the Hong Kong tea museum, alright? I was bored" she muttered and approached the pots. "They use to have these ceremonies and classes on proper tea making"

"How long does it take to do a tea ceremony?" Sherlock asked.

"Depends if you're doing the curing of the pot. With it, about four hours. Without it, about one. But these pots are old. I doubt they needed that"

"Yeah, Soo Lin only did the tea mixture" Andy commented.

"Well, no one wants to wait for three hours on the pot for only two mouthfuls of tea" she muttered.

"Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining" Sherlock said, kneeled at eyelevel with them. "Now there are two"

Milo didn't say anything, but what she was thinking was that it was sad when one's hobby was also one's death.

Andy was sent home, they were given the keys for the museum – Milo had laughed – and she indicated the best ways of getting inside to the two men, before they each started prowling. John went with her only to assure himself that she wouldn't take anything.

"There's nothing here for me to take!" she whispered, checking the security measures and blind spots after having synchronized the cameras to the phone.

"Well, no offense, but I'd rather just stick around…" and to his credit he was quite apologetic, even if he did think that she was somehow going to pocket a Foo Dog.

"Oh, fine" she tapped her cell phone, memorizing the CCTV locations and noting where the lasers were.

"Interesting…" she muttered.

"What?" he asked, hands shoved deep inside his pocket.

"Nothing. Nice arrangement" she glanced at the screen that showed all the camera angles. "Come on. We're on. Sherlock found her"

They headed towards the curator's room in a disguised rush, Milo discreetly stopping to take several photographs on her path.

"Why didn't the guards notice her sneaking in here?" he asked while they took the stairs.

"No one looks at the camera recordings unless something's wrong. Since nothing was…"

"They didn't check" John completed in a tone that suggested disapproval or disappointment.

"To their defence, watching twelve hours of nothing happening on screen is boring and useless and actually takes that long to watch" she jumped the last three steps.

Inside, Sherlock and a pretty girl were standing face to face.

He seemed halfway fascinated, a new look for him to be sure and she was petite and afraid, with beautiful features and graceful gestures. Milo was entranced as well, adoring beauty in any of its shapes or forms. Eyes travelled from her to John, back to Sherlock; eyes that seemed ready to cry, determined not to.

"You saw the cipher" she said, softly. Her voice, lightly accented, suggested warmth. Milo could definitely see why Andy adored the woman. She was halfway there herself. "Then you know he's coming for me"

"You've been clever to avoid him so far" Sherlock said. She had yet to hear a single compliment exit his mouth towards another person and whether it was truly her cleverness that he liked, or the fact that she was the type of woman to inspire such titillation, it was fairly clear that he was clearly just as taken with her as she was.

"I had to finish" she breathed out. "To finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me" she spoke, resigned, with just a touch of sadness.

"Who is he? Have you met him before?" he asked with interest.

She paused, eyes downcast. "When I was a girl, we met in China. I recognize his…" she breathed. "signature" It almost seemed like it was hard for her to discuss it…Milo frowned, walking slowly and silently behind Sherlock.

"The cipher?" he asked.

She didn't give her agreement. "Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu"

Without anyone noticing, Milo flinched, eyes stuck on the woman's lips as if she'd cried out a blasphemy. Her eyes turned to John who repeated the name.

"The spider" Sherlock translated.

A spider indeed…

She removed her shoe, showing the tattooed sole of a circled lotus. "Do you know this mark?"

"Yes. It's the mark of a Tong"

"Hm?" John looked for an explanation.

"Ancient crime syndicate, based in China"

It was more than that, Milo thought. Based in China meant created there…and remaining there. A Tong was formed to emulate the Triads but had less of their discipline, their cultural ideas or financial heritage. They'd been formed out of common people, threatened, pressured, desperate and set against the corner before they started fighting back.

She'd always considered Tongs to be more threatening than Triads…because a cornered animal was just that much more dangerous than a free one.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them"

Milo gave a strangled sigh.

"Hauls?" John blinked. Soo Lin Yao looked at him meaningfully. "Y-you mean, you were a smuggler?" and she didn't know if his tone was incredulous or disappointed.

Soo Lin put her shoe back on and started narrating. The fact that she wouldn't meet their eyes suggested shame. "I was fifteen. My parents were dead. I had no livelihood. No way of surviving…day to day" she smiled sadly. "except to work for the bosses"

"Who are they?' Sherlock asked.

"They are called The Black Lotus. By the time I was sixteen…I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong" The air felt stifling… "But I managed to leave that life behind me" …as if every word she spoke… "I came to England" …fell like an anvil…"They gave me a job, here" …and added several handfuls of coffin nails… "Everything was good. New Life" …to her dreams of freedom.

"And he came looking for you" Sherlock's deep voice sealed it. Air-tight and inescapable.

"Yes. I hoped, after five years…maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave"

It was a good mark…the tattoo. As ever present…as remindful.

"A small community like ours…they are never very far away" she wiped her cheeks, taking away stray tears. The tears didn't impress Milo, neither did the story or tone, or actual pain that could be felt into her voice. It was the idea that…like Soo Lin, thousands of other girls shared a singular story, and would continue to do so. She'd been everywhere, cultural diversity meant nothing when you tried everything, but human distress was the same everywhere. She turned her back to the girl – girl even if she was about her age – and leaned on the curator's table.

"He came into my flat" Soo Lin continued, changing the subject to their immediate concern. "He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen"

"And you've no idea what it was?" John asked.

She shook her head. "I refused to help"

"So, you knew him well when you were living back in China?"

She nodded. "Oh yes…" she raised her eyes. "He's my brother"

Milo closed her eyes. John was speechless. Sherlock was displaying one of his rare moments, outside of his shell, allowing a sort of calm, unobtrusive sympathy reflect on his face.

"Two orphans…" Soo Lin had started saying, murmuring in a low voice. "We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the street, like beggars" It was unclear if she was convincing herself or them.

"My brother had become their puppet in the power of the one they call…_Shan_. The Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day, I came to work and the cipher was waiting"

Milo wanted a cigarette…she _needed_ one on a fundamental level. She wanted the clarity it offered, the calm, the peace, like breathing deeply and relaxing knowing that everything would be fine. Sherlock removed the photographs from his pocket and set them on the table.

"Can you decipher these?" he asked.

She leaned forward. "These are numbers"

"Yes, I know"

"Here. The line across the man's eyes, it's the Chinese number one"

"And this one is fifteen, but what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it…it's based upon a book-"

They looked up as the lights went down. And with them, the CCTV, lasers and electronic locks. Milo's phone lost visual. The alarms, that alerted the police station directly, were down. It was the first time Milo had ever depended on alarms and security, and they had failed.

"He's here" Soo Lin muttered through words strangled by fear. "Zhi Zhu. He has found me"

She didn't realize that she'd started to run at the same time as Sherlock and John's shout passed by her ears without meaning. Her ears were full of a voice shouting "Don't be stupid, you asshole!".

First rule was 'don't die'. It sounded simple but not many people ever understood it. They got involved into things that wasn't their business, they fought for no reason just to boost their reputation or to show off. It wasn't healthy and it wasn't smart and if Milo would have been as clever as her associates knew she was, she would have ran in the other direction.

Even the simplest bar brawl could turn deadly if someone had a gun. The Spider had a gun.

Therefore, as she ran into the main corridor, she wasn't using her smarts. She noted that Sherlock was right beside her only when they noticed the man at the top of the stairs, and then she almost shoved the man in the opposite direction, to hide behind the base of a statue while she dodged behind a wall near the security area. All the screens were dark.

The bullets were spat out with abandon, in what looked like an attempt to scare rather than murder. That would have changed if they got in the way.

They needed the security back on. Not to kill him, just scare him away…distract him, annoy him, threaten him, injure him…something that would allow him to retreat, away from them, away from Soo Lin. In any situation – mental, physical, emotional, spiritual – the winner is determined by he who has an advantage of even one split second over the other person, one edge, one insight into the other's mind.

They had nothing.

The Spider ran to the side.

Milo's first concern was the security. The detective's was to run up the stairs. She was forced to follow. Up the stairs. Use the staircase ledge as fulcrum. Duck to the right. Sherlock went ahead. Using the exhibits as walls, he laid low. Shots, again, aimed at the detective. She took a split second to determine her environment – things that might have been useful, contacting the police – and the mistake of getting out of cover drew attention. A shot aimed at her. Her skin split like dry paper. She took cover again, to her knees. The air had been expelled from her lungs. She touched her throat. The fingertips came out red. Sherlock shouted something out. She didn't hear. The blood was pumping in her ears louder than any outside sound.

Then it was silent. She jumped to her feet and ran back down the stairs.

She was beside John when they heard the shot. She heard his words, a strangled "Oh, my God" that she couldn't even manage, but she didn't follow. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins. A hot and cold pain invaded her throat. She could feel the blood slowly move down the slope of her neck, wetting her shirt and stray hair.

There was a certain pain in her chest she couldn't place. She couldn't breathe.

She left before either of the men could talk to her.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks so much to the reviewers and I hope you enjoyed reading.


	19. Chapter 19

**Jotto**

* * *

_"What do you make of it, Holmes?"_

_"It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information."_

_"But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?" ~ Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, "The Valley of Fear"_

* * *

Pasha got out of bed simply to go to the bathroom.

It was late, and he'd gone to bed late. It wasn't an easy job but someone had to do it, he grinned to himself. The parties alone were _exhausting_.

He rolled his wide shoulders and exited the room. His eyes stopped on a sliver of light…coming from his office. He grabbed the gun that was in his nightstand and approached steadily and silently, then threw the door open.

His heart very nearly stopped when he saw who was at his office.

"The door was locked" he stated.

"Was it? I hadn't noticed" Snake Eyes retorted, drinking his best brandy, lighting up his finest Cuban cigars and sitting with her feet up on the Italian marble-covered desk. The girl had no respect. But what was he going to do? Tell her no?

She smirked, raising an eyebrow. "You might want to put some pants on"

He looked down at his naked self.

Any day that started with Snake Eyes' presence was a bad one. He knew that.

He put a robe on and put the gun back but he was still unprepared to deal with her presence, remaining in the doorway of his own sanctuary.

The light from the lamp, a cold, pale yellow was giving her face an unexpected glow. Shadow, silver and smoke were words that a very drunk and apparently very poetic man had described her at one common party, where she'd floated in a long, shapeless dress of ribbon and georgette. Pasha had remembered it, on principle. Watching her, the sentiment of immaterial stuck around.

He wondered if it wasn't a false impression built out of props. If with different make-up, without those phantasmal curls of hers always in the wind, permanently tangled, without a frame of clove and smoke, dressed in normal clothes, colourful and alive, laughing heartily would she had appeared less artificial?

"So how is your life, Em? You look spectacular, as always"

She moved away her blonde curls with a practiced move of her head. The full lips sketched an amused smile.

"Do you need capital?" he asked again.

"I wouldn't look for it with you"

"You're trying to court me? I'm flattered. Or is it just an excuse to drink my good liquor?"

"Neither. Although a gentleman would offer a refill" she extended her glass and he grabbed it and poured his 1964 French brandy.

"I should have imagined that I wasn't the one interesting you. You know I've always loved you" he smiled. "Even when you stitched me up in Monte Carlo"

"That's news to me. I remember that before leaving the hotel I saw room service entering your suite with a tray. A vodka and a double gin. You've never had gin in your entire life, Pasha and never out of two glasses at once"

"I have a reputation to maintain"

"I wonder what you could have gotten out of that gorgeous brunette. All she had in her pockets was a subway ticket and a badge…" she grinned, showing off beast like teeth. "I checked"

"Let's not argue" he stepped around the desk and poured himself a glass of vodka. "What do you need? I'll help anyway I can, even if you don't deserve it"

"In Chinatown, there is a smuggling ring. What do you know about it?"

"Hm…there are more than one. But I know what you're usually into, so I'll stop you there. There's nothing interesting about it. Or at least, nothing interesting to us. They're legit" he gave a ruffled, boyish smile, displaying a straight row of white pearls. "Well" he continued "Legit for our business. I don't know much more"

"You think I'm stupid, of course" she got up and started circling like a shark. "After all I only recently got back to London, I don't know all the players…" she paused, sitting on his desk, holding the cigar like a man, puffing away gently. On anyone else, it would have looked affected. "But don't think for a second that I don't know the game. You know all the major smuggling operations that go in and out of Europe. Why would this be any different?"

He didn't budge. "It could be, perhaps, because there are bigger players than myself"

"Oh my. Did that hurt to say?" she grinned.

"Asking about it can only get you into trouble, Emilia, so why try?"

"Professional interest, of course. If I'm going to stay in London for a while more, I thought I'd know everything about the local businesses"

"You plan on staying?"

"I'm considering it"

He sighed and took his place at his desk, leaning back. She took a seat on the desk, right beside him. His fingers started tracing circles on her thigh, playing lightly with the holes in her jeans and pulling on the strings of the fabric, barely touching the skin. It was soft, but cold, as if the woman next to him was made of marble. He imagined that she was always cold. Even if he intended for the gesture to be intimate, she took it more or less like a pat on the back.

"You are talking about the Tong, yes?"

"Black Lotus"

He sucked in a breath, removed his hand and reached for a cigar. "You know, the rumours I've heard say that you've worked with them. Isn't it a bit odd that you're here, talking about them with _me_?"

"Darling" she gave a threatening grin, full of teeth. "I can't commit to a single address for too long. Do you believe I'd pick a family for life? Our arrangements were simple. They had a job to do and money. I had the means to do a job and an empty bank account. As soon as the deed was done, we forgot each other existed"

"Until now"

"Until now, when they operate on my home turf. Letting them go without a hello would be improper to British manners" she quirked a smile. "It would be unpatriotic"

He laughed. "Well, we can't have that. And what do I get out of this?"

She crossed her legs and leaned forward giving him an unprecedented look into her cleavage. Two crescent moons peaked out from behind black lace, achieving their goal. He was just a bit more distracted.

"What do you want?"

If he wasn't mistaken, her voice was just a bit raspier than usual.

"Uh" he got out of his seat. "A name. His name. The name of the Black Lotus leader. It ties together" he passed a hand over his face.

She didn't bother turning around to face him but lounged back on his desk, hair caressing the floor.

"You go first"

"Alright. They have had dealings here. Before, that is" he breathed deeply, getting certain pictures out of his head. "Everything is legit. Well, legit for our dealings" he grinned boyishly. "It's known. People have been paid off. Things like that"

"Uh huh" she nodded and it sounded just a bit too breathy…

He cleared his throat. "They sell their antiques – that's what they sell, antiques – through legit businesses. A front. Because a private supplier getting artwork anonymously is nothing too uncommon. They use large auctioneers to sell them off and get their profits. Some bigger pieces get lost in the cracks. I assume that's what happened now. Some supplier got greedy. I wasn't informed of much. I'm not important enough" he smiled bitterly.

"Didn't it raise any flags? Anonymous pieces of art, regularly funnelled towards auction houses?"

"Not as far as I know. They've been smart about it. Whatever contact they had, he's good. They're regularly cycled and sit on the more important pieces that have buyers first hand. I know that there are a couple of fresh ones out but not a lot. Besides, if they pass through customs, they're halfway through. The police doesn't dare piss off the best collectors of the lot and if they do, they're bought off before they can make a fuss. It's a sweet deal, though I imagine it's also costly. Losing a piece big enough for enforcers to show up…well, that must have made them sweat. Especially…" he paused.

"Especially?" she asked.

"The name…what is it?" he lowered his gaze, downing the entire glass of vodka.

"Don't do it, Pasha. You're not going to win his favour" she climbed down and snuffed the cigar. "He isn't that type of person. He'll try and kill you simply for knowing what you know"

"How do you know that?" he replied, fully incensed. "How can you know about struggling to-"

She raised her hand. "I'll stop you before you say something you'll regret"

Her eyes were cold and unyielding. She drank the rest of her brandy and set it on the table. The sound was louder than anything he'd heard before. "Tell me"

He looked to the side.

"I once saw him cut the throat of one of his smugglers for realizing the cost of what he had to carry and asking for more cash. It wasn't pretty" she drawled. "It wasn't properly cut, you see, just what you'd see in the movies. Bad at exposing the jugular. He screamed to his death with this horrible gurgling whistle like something a broken water drain might make. It was brutal and messy… but he insisted on doing it himself-"

"He doesn't know"

"What?"

"He doesn't know that one of his generals, the one in charge of this operation messed up. He doesn't know that one of his items is lost" Pasha set his glass down, defeated. "I don't know what general"

She smiled. It was a cold smile, which bore no similarity to a normal, healthy one. "So that's why this operation is going so fast"

He nodded.

She headed for the door. "His name…is Li Shen. The general is Shan"

He raised his eyes. "Why tell me now?"

"_Mon petit g__arçon__…_I always uphold my end of a deal" she smiled at him sadly. "Nevertheless, I would still forget about it. If you end up grassing on Shan…" she shook her head. "You won't live enough to see your reward"

* * *

She breathed in and breathed out, then gulped out of the bottle like a person about to commit suicide. The act brought on a small amount of pain, especially as she removed the scarf that covered her throat, but it was better to suffer through the pain than die of a bullet to the throat. She'd been lucky as it were. It was just a scratch, later disinfected by scotch. The scarring, she could deal with later.

It wouldn't do for a grifter to have a recognizable mark.

It was near sunrise when she was through. She didn't know if Pasha would listen but it wasn't her job to keep others alive. She was fairly poor at it.

He wouldn't survive the notice, but she would. She was, in a sense, too hated to kill. If Li Shen found out that his people misplaced something…even without value, well…she smiled cruelly, it would be _tragic_. She'd only ever met two of his generals, poor bastards. One didn't have an eye, the other was missing a thumb. They were the older ones, distinguished and ever so faithful.

The level of respect and faithfulness, actually, was almost frightening.

She hailed a cab and got inside, destination Baker Street.

There wasn't much she'd acquired in China: a few contacts, a bullet wound, a sword and a headache. Maybe she should have tried harder.

She wanted to enter through the door upon arrival to find it locked. That itself was odd. She knocked, than rang the doorbell.

"Can I help you?" a voice behind her asked. An old woman stood behind her, looking at her suspiciously. Her hair hadn't fully turned white and the transition to an elder hadn't affected her sense of style: it was distinguished, modest yet modern. In her youth she'd probably been one of those fresh, perpetually candid sort of woman and she had yet to lose that. It put Milo completely off guard.

"Are you one of Sherlock's clients, dear?" she asked, moving to unlock the front door.

"Uh, no. I'm helping them with a case?" she half-asked, half-told, trying to point exactly at the woman's position inside the situation.

"Oh, that's alright then. I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear. The landlady" she smiled.

"M-Milo. Er…Emilia. Nice to meet you" she smiled back, being as the woman was the sort that made you improve your manners just to match hers. "I was wondering where they were?"

"Oh, they're always up and about. You know the type. My husband was just the same. What sort of case is it, dear?"

She smiled, trying to look as harmless as possible, despite the words. She took an instant liking to the woman and it wouldn't do to upset her. "Something about two murders and smuggling. I'm just …here for the ride, as it were, like John"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "I'll just let you in, then shall I? Do you want a cuppa?"

Milo didn't. She sat in the kitchen, waiting, contacting all the known information dealers in the city and then some, wondering if the landlady considered her presence a usual affair or if she just placed her there for Sherlock to find. Either way, she was a little bit too drunk to care.

She took the liberty to sit down and eat more of the expired cereal. In her search she discovered some eyeballs, a couple of ears in a plastic bag and three fingers in vinegar. They were out of milk.

She felt like she'd somehow invaded Hannibal Lecter's pantry, unable and unwilling to move another step from her spot on the kitchen chair for fear of discovered severed heads or toes around. For some reason, Milo disliked toes more than any other random, detached body part.

She had many strange ideas and specific tastes, like for example, hating it when others ate apples, thinking that the sound of a doors opening was seductive and disliking the colour 'chartreuse', though she thought the name was fun to say.

It was worth mentioning that Milo had had quite a few drinks after the museum, to test the scotch before disinfecting the cut, of course, and that she always thought about the strangest things while under that pleasant buzz. The bottle in her pocket compensated for the rest. The first thing to go, when drinking, were the social conventions she'd set in place. She didn't care if others thought her weird – she usually very much did – and she filtered information easier. The problem was the thinking loops – name everything red… - and focusing on something too much, for too long. She could stare at the table for hours.

She heard steps coming up the stairs and sighed, ending her conversations to listen in on their own discussion on the Chinese artefacts.

Mao's revolution had unearthed miles of possibilities for the illicit trades. It was as if rats had suddenly started to pour out of a sinking ship, wealthy people hiding their valuables. Treasures, personal collections or family relics had been stashed then, carefully hidden, or worse. Sold off for a penny just for extra cash. It was well known enough to make Sherlock think of it exactly. Maybe he'd discussed it with people who'd actually done that – like her – maybe not, but it certainly explained the sort of magnitude the Black Lotus had gained.

"Try Crispians" she tossed from the kitchen, getting up from the chair to get a glass of water before starting to stare at the glass. There was a very suspicious rusty stain…she sniffed carefully. The bottom of it smelled both metallic and alcoholic. She put it down carefully and took a step back. It had a shine on it, her fingerprints matte against the transparent glass and the cylindrical shape had just the slightest mould error, at the seam. She blinked. "They don't have an in-house appraiser and often put the museum on retinue for it"

"What are you doing back there?" Sherlock asked, stepping towards her, thinking of his chemistry set. She hadn't touched it. She hadn't even finished with the proper examination of the floor yet, then the counters and then the things on the counters, ceiling and chairs…

"Are you drunk?" he asked, with just a hint of Mycroft's distaste audible to her ears. Glossy eyes and constricted pupils seemed to point to the obvious reason along with the faint smell. She looked at his face, focusing on it. Every single individual hair, every eyelash, the shape of his nostrils…

Different nostrils from Mycroft. She wondered just what type of nose their parents had.

"Not drunk" she passed a hand over her face. "Just drinking"

"Are you alright?" John asked, looking at her with too much concern to be asking solely about her alcohol consumption.

She smiled much too brightly for a completely sober person. "Of course. Thanks for asking. Now…try Crispians! If not, go with Lyman's. Sotheby's should be among the last. They have guys on retinue. Some of the best actually. Pain in my arse for sure"

She was in fact, struggling from taking in the carpet with all of its substance, threads and colours that mixed…

Milo closed her eyes and collapsed on the sofa, hood on her face. "Try common art items: paintings, teapots, jewellery though that is a lot harder to properly sell. People get fussy about gold and gems" she elaborated before starting to enumerate items again. "Statuettes, mirrors, boxes, those little bowls…"

"Vases" he completed.

"Vases" she agreed.

"Check for dates" he muttered. "Here, John" he said to draw the man's attention, who was already staring at the screen. "Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous"

It was perhaps too easy to put it together. "The vendor doesn't give his name" Sherlock quotes. "Two undiscovered treasures from the East"

"One in Lukis' suitcase…the other in Van Coon's" John smiled as the pieces fit into place.

"What's the price?" Milo asked, voice muffled by the hood.

"An estimate of half a million"

"Are you _fucking with me_?" she asked incredulously and rolled off the sofa and leaned over Sherlock to stare at the screen.

"I take it that's not the usual price for that type of vases?" John asked.

"No, really?" she asked, sardonically, still on the precipice of shock. "The guiding price is usually a max of one hundred thou. A max. I mean, it can reach astronomical values from there, depends on who's bidding and how much they want it, but with the way the antique market goes, you're basically just setting yourself up for failure. _Why_ would it cost so much? Unless…" she shut up.

"Unless?" Sherlock looked at her from the corner of his eye.

"A lot of the cash people pay for these is because of their history. Where it was placed, what it went through. An auction house setting a certain price set up ahead makes people more interested. Even if they're not that valuable, they can catch the eye of some rich idiot who enjoys spending money. I should know. I love rich idiots" she muttered the last part, swatting Sherlock's hand off the mouse and enlarging the pictures, giving a low whistle. "These are niiiice… Not half a mill nice, but nice"

He swatted her hand back and opened a new search engine tab. "Valuable antiquities sold at auction" he muttered as he typed. "Look, here's another one. Chinese ceramic statue sold for four hundred thousand" he grabbed a notepad and a pen and wrote it down.

John went through Lukis' notebook, then at the screen. "Look, a month before that, Chinese painting, half a million"

"All of them from an anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China and one by one, they're feeding them into Britain"

Milo stole the mouse again, enlarging the picture of the painting. Typical Asian strokes, delicate and elaborate of two lovers adrift on a boat. There was no signature. Something like that should have been worth more than half a million.

"This is so weird…" she muttered, switched to the statuette.

"What is?"

"This should cost more than half a mill" she pointed to the painting. "This should cost less" she pointed to the tab with the vases. "But they're around the same price. Why?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at her. "Any theories?"

"Anything that gets over half a mill has a lot of publicity and sets a precedent for the next auctions. That wouldn't be good. At the same time, stealing something and selling it cheap is a waste. Barely covers expenses. So the price is raised. This is generally the line at which it could go either way"

"Huh" John muttered, cross-referencing the schedules. "Every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China"

"So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China? What if one of them stole something?" Sherlock theorized.

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come"

"I hate it when thieving catches up to you" Milo muttered again, sadly more sober.

A knock made them turn their heads towards the front door.

"Yoo-hoo! Sorry" Mrs Hudson opened the door. "Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"A young man's outside with crates of books"

Milo stepped towards the window. "…Those are a lot of books" she muttered. John stepped beside her.

"Well, I guess Inspector Dimmock came through…"

Two by two, men dressed in uniform walked inside the apartment with large crates, dumping them on the floor, creating towers that were about Milo's height. They were all filled with books.

Milo had taken to hiding just behind Sherlock, secretly wishing she'd had more to drink and noting the exact cut of his jacket. It was a nice jacket. Perfect stitching. Interesting number of threads and the fabric: cotton and linen if she wasn't mistaken.

"So the numbers are references" her human shield started to theorize again, since it helped with his brainwork.

"To books" John helped.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages" he detailed.

"Right, so…fifteen and one, that means…?"

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read"

"Okay, so what's the message?"

"Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book _code_. It has to be one that they both own" he tried to focus before his thinking pattern was rudely interrupted. He looked down at the person he walked into, a bit too close for comfort.

Milo was looking up with large, alcohol-induced watery eyes, providing a portrait not unlike Bambi, right after its mother's death. "I don't like cops"

He gave a martyr-like sigh. "Go on the sofa, behind the books. They won't notice. They're not that observant" he muttered the last sentence more to himself than to her. Strangely for her – who had a near psychopathic distaste of being told what to do – she went behind the crates and sat down. It was a decent wall for someone like her, but not so useful to anyone taller.

"Okay, fine...this…shouldn't take too long, should it?" John muttered, without much confidence in his words.

The boxes were cheap and thin, the exact kind that she imagined hosted a number of her files around the world with words like "uncertain" or "criminal". She put her fingers on it. It was smooth and lean, and for a moment she was distracted with the differences in colour between her skin and the box. She flinched lightly when Sherlock stepped next to her and removed the lid on one of the boxes, rummaging through it.

Footsteps and then the voice of a man. She leaned to the side to peek through the boxes. The Inspector was young, not bad-looking, but with a terrible taste in ties. He proffered an evidence bag with a paper inside of it to Sherlock.

"We found these…at the museum. Is this your writing?" he turned to John.

"Er, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us" he said and his tone could be read as reluctance. He didn't really want to mention the girl, disliked the fact that she died and was willing to forget that her brother had killed her.

Whether the inspector – Milo never caught his name and wasn't about to ask it – understood that or not, he nodded subtly, in a discreet manner.

"Anything else I can do?" he asked. "To assist you…, I mean"

He disliked his position, the fact that he hadn't a clue where to start and, apparently, Sherlock. Of course, the last one was no surprise. Had Milo been in his shoes, Sherlock would have spent the night behind bars on principle.

"Some silence right now would be marvellous" the detective decreed.

Night behind bars might have done him some good, actually. She didn't comment nor tease, almost feeling as her alcohol-induced euphoria, as well as the alcohol itself, evaporated from her veins.

They were left alone. A busy sort of silence, filled of book handling, pen scratching and page turning took over. Milo took a box after emptying her small scotch bottle and sat on the floor. John took inventory of the books, while Sherlock announced the first words in some of the books.

Sherlock nearly tripped on her once – and glared. John and her swapped places twice when the back pain or numbness took over. One by one, boxes were emptied or discarded. The smell inside of the room had started to rival a public library.

It had only gone worse after John left, early in the morning, giving excuses of a job. Milo had taken the place of a rug, hair fanning out and limbs spread like that of a rag doll, perfect picture of a murder victim outside the fact that she moved, tossing books in the corner. She'd liked books. They were wonderful things and Henry had made sure to tell her just how wonderful each time the topic came up. He had set her on the path of literature, feeding her the stories. If she didn't like one, considered it too hard, or detailed, he'd give her a look that bore as much challenge as disappointment.

"So you're giving up? I see…I shouldn't have expected you to understand" it had said and she'd redoubled her efforts. There had never been a man she had hated more than Tolstoy, and the swear words and curses had probably been enough to set his grave alight, but she'd finished all of his books twice. Along with Balzac, Dostoyevsky, Homer, Alighieri…

She grabbed a book that seemed vaguely familiar and stood up, massaging the back of her neck. "Are we done?"

"No, there's still those boxes over there" he waved his hand in the direction of the window and she groaned loudly. A glance at the clock on the wall told her the time. It was late, reaching afternoon rapidly.

"I'll go make some coffee" she muttered, dragging herself up. "Any specific places I should stay away from?" she tossed him a look.

He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Don't open the microwave"

"Right" the inelegance in her movements failed to interest her as she moved her feet without enthusiasm. Somewhere along the evening she'd removed her shoes and her jacket and her hair had been piled at the top of her head in the world's least efficient bun. Along with her clothes – ripped jeans and a tunic, so baggy it exposed a shoulder – she might have looked Bohemian-chic. The appearance cracked where appearances usually did – around the eyes. She was tired and frustrated and would have gladly poured her anger into her hobbies or against another person had she had the time. Someone might have described them as 'crazy eyes' which was certainly accurate though not very flattering.

Sounds of pots and running water could be heard, then a yelp at the second cupboard.

Ten minutes later, she offered him a large mug, glaring at his clearly amused face and put a jar of sugar on the desk. She drank it black and watched as he took two teaspoons of the stuff in his mug, vaguely fascinated by the stirring motion.

"When's John coming back?" he asked, putting his mug down and starting another box.

"Dunno" she sipped her brew. She'd just had jobs, once or twice, laying low, having fun. She'd been a dealer in Monte Carlo, a surf instructor at the Gold Coast and had a very brief deal as a snowboarding technician – that ended badly… - but there were never proper ones that required a strict behavior or, if it came to that, a strict schedule.

She stretched her legs and leaned back while he rummaged through more books.

"A book anyone would own…" he muttered as he searched his own books. A Bible, a dictionary, a medical guide…

"What books would you own?" he directed the question to her and she shrugged.

"I don't own any books" she stated, holding her phone. "If I ever need one, I get a pdf or just look it up on a search engine" she stretched lightly, watching him look up the words. He grunted lightly, as if he'd been expecting the answer. She had to agree with the assessment. She didn't look like the type to read for amusement.

He looked through each book and set it down then sighed and messed with his hair. Both of them noticed when John stepped in.

"I need to get some air. We're going out tonight" he said, without as much of a hello. Strangely, John seemed more rested than when he'd left. And he had a goofy little smile on his face.

"Actually, I've got a date" he said, smile still on his lips, if anything, only getting wider.

"What?" the detective asked as if suddenly woken up from his sleep.

"Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?" John hinted in good humor.

"That's what I was suggesting"

"No, it wasn't" John rebuffed. "At least I hope not"

"Yeah, don't mind me, mates…I'm just the local friendly ghost" Milo rolled her eyes and took her mug and Sherlock's into the kitchen then patted the doctor on the back. "Good on you"

Sherlock resigned himself to the idea. If there was anything Milo had learned about the Holmes men was that they saw each other above such carnal or even social whims, as if they were some sort of misanthropic monks in suits. If it ran in the family, she considered it a wonder that they were even conceived.

"Where are you taking her?" he faked interest.

"Er…cinema" John answered with the same love-struck smile.

"Urgh…dull, boring, predictable…" he enumerated with distaste. "Why don't you try this?" he took a piece of paper out of his pocket. "In London for one night only"

John gave a light smile before offering it back. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice"

Milo's lighter sputtered twice before it lit the end of her cigarette. John glanced at her before looking at the paper in his hand. He was wavering beautifully, and from Sherlock's glancing – from the corner of his eye, no less – he was walking right where the detective wanted him to.

She waited until he was upstairs, ears careful at the motion. It took him nearly twenty minutes for the water to start running. She smiled.

"You are an evil man"

"Did he call?" Sherlock asked, putting his books back, untouched by the adjective.

"I assume so, yes"

With a grin that could only be called Mephistophelian, he took his own phone off the table and inputted the number. "Hello, I called a few minutes ago for a reservation on the name of Holmes, for two. Yes, I would like it if you could save me another ticket" his eyes flickered to her.

She held up four fingers.

"Two other tickets, please. Yes, thank you. Have a good day" he closed the phone.

"How did you know the reservation was under the name of Holmes?" she asked, leaning on the doorsill.

"I gave him my credit card a couple of days ago" he gave a small grin.

Milo smiled and inhaled from the cigarette for a long moment then looked at him like she was going to say something meaningful.

"We are not going to Heaven"

"Just as well. I heard it's terribly overrated"


	20. Chapter 20

**Pachisi**

* * *

_"This calls for a particularly subtle blend of psychology and extreme violence" ~ Vivian, "The Young Ones"_

* * *

John left the flat first, dressed to impress, casual yet elegant and smelling of cologne. Sherlock, who had spent the rest of the day going from looking over the rest of the books and over the cypher to poking the hand of the cat she'd given him (its new home being his desk), perked up as the door closed.

Milo watched them with a smile not unlike a mother who sees 'the little one' create some mischief. One was trying his hand at manipulation, the other at dating. She closed her laptop tabs and waited for the moment when Sherlock would pounce upon his coat and get a cab as if a cavalry was following him. It didn't take long and she stuck around closely, aided by three other mugs of coffee.

She hadn't had the opportunity to change but in her forgotten backpack, left somewhere behind their door was always a fresh black camisole, a toothbrush and a pair of black cargo pants. She'd left the bag behind, thinking that it would have only slowed her down.

They took a cab to the Chinese Circus.

Milo had been interested the first time she'd heard of it and saw it in person but since then, the interest had faded. The Chinese circus was generally composed of variety arts: acrobatic, balancing or some other demonstration of physical skill displayed in traditional Chinese attire. Clowns or large animals were exclusive to the West. The Eastern elements included Shaolin monks, Peking opera characters like the Monkey King or kung fu demonstrations. It was certainly impressive on some levels, especially since a lot of the acts were performed without a net.

Red lanterns greeted them at the entrance without any writing on them which seemed terribly odd and out of place. It reminded Milo that she'd missed the Spring Festival and Mardi Gras, two events that she attended every year as a tradition. She hadn't lit her Sky Lantern, she hadn't made a wish, she hadn't solved the riddles…

For a moment, it seemed like the year was going to be terrible, but then she remembered that it already was.

There weren't many people around, not as much as she would have expected, definitely not as much as a circus in Hong Kong would have gathered. But she doubted that their purpose was to gather an audience.

"I never liked the circus" she muttered to herself. "It's creepy…Horrible history to it. Everywhere" she jumped to poke a lantern. "Why can't criminals hide in a pub. It's awesome. It would be efficient. Catch your murderer, have a pint"

"Yes, well, sadly, things don't work out that way" Sherlock answered, looking around.

"I hated it even when I was a kid…" she continued to mutter as though he hadn't talked as they sat in the corner, two people silently discussing feeling less suspicious than just one.

Sherlock was observing everything and everyone, as if the assassin was going to casually come up and go to the bathroom. It was ridiculous, something he'd readily agreed on, but knowing their terrain was better than walking in blind. Milo could agree on that. The fact that they stood in the corner like two adolescents hiding for a snog occurred to neither of them.

He grabbed her wrist as they exited their corner and towards the ticket booth. His fingers, unlike hers, were hot from the constant motion of restlessness in his pockets, felt even through the gloves. It was just as well, as Milo had never broken anyone's intimacy during a date before without an ulterior motive and John didn't deserve it. If Sherlock didn't understand dating, social lives outside of family or friends and – she assumed – sex, she found it a very important part of life. She consoled herself with the idea that the best first dates included a bit of danger and scary environments due to the emotional rush. It was very likely that no matter what happened, the girl would start dating John for good.

It cemented the idea that Sherlock was theatrical, stepping in right as John protested the number of tickets.

"Then I phoned back and got two more, for myself and Milo" he let her hand go. "I'm Sherlock" he introduced himself, shaking the woman's hand with the same faked smile as that when he'd convinced the woman to jump off her balcony.

She gave her usual bright smile and extended her hand lightly. "Emilia"

"Hi" she smiled, a small laugh hiding her surprise. She was pretty, a gentle, warm sort of person with a captivating smile and soft features, the typical English rose. It was understandable why John had sought her company, so gentle and calm it provided a stern contrast to what was his normal lifestyle: murderers, memories of war and Sherlock.

And speaking of the man, he said hello and dashed to the side as if he had been dragged off by horses. All three looked after him in silence.

"Er, I'll just…" John pointed towards the direction and back at them.

"Go ahead, we'll get these" Milo smiled and turned to the woman. "We are terribly sorry for this intrusion, but when Sherlock told me that they were performing in London for a single day, I knew we had to see them. We'll get out of your hair as soon as possible" she pleaded with a sweet voice, taking most of the blame upon herself.

"Oh, no, that's alright" she smiles with care and understanding as if the entire situation were simply means of checking up on John and the women he was seeing. As if he was some sort of teenager on a date for the first time with a dubious woman. The thought amused.

"Are you two together?" she looked back towards where the men were discussing.

"In a way" Milo nodded, anything less ruining the excuse, anything more offering too much detail. "So, John didn't give us a lot of details. Probably hoping to avoid a scene like this, I think" she grinned. "Where did you two meet?"

_Talk faster!_ She thought, discreetly glancing back at the two, who looked like they had some sort of lover's spat. _Proper timing, mates_, she admonished silently.

"Oh, at work. John was hired at our clinic and he started today" she smiled, and looked at the tickets in Milo's hand. "Shall we?"

"Oh, sure" Milo smiled back and walked up the stairs.

"- get off with Sarah!" they heard as they approached and Milo did all she could not to burst into laughter.

"Smooth operator, Casanova" she muttered to him and gave him the tickets as she went by, shadowing Sherlock. They might have intervened upon their date but there was a limit to rudeness. She would have stood as far away as possible but the stage was round and at ground level, marked by candles. A delicate arrangement, carefully made.

The lights hid and emphasized at the same time. The segmented vaulted ceiling with ornamental ventilation grilles shined like gold in the warm light, dados of oak shined in candlelight and at the end, unused, a rectangular proscenium housed four stage lights. It was eerily atmospheric, aided in part, by the thin scent of incense: pure sandalwood dipped in oil and clove.

The resulting sensation was of pressure; reverence being taken by force out of every pore.

Milo felt assaulted, underdressed, dizzy. Her hands turned to fists in her pockets.

"You said circus. This is not a circus" John reproached. "Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is …_art_" he pronounced as if art were a dirty word. Milo supposed he couldn't have the same feeling as her. Their passions were not the same. An architecturally beautiful building or items remaining from those long dead were enough to bring her to ecstasy.

"This is not their day job" Sherlock replied back.

"No, sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus. They're a gang of international smugglers" John rebuffed sardonically.

"Will you two _shut up!" _Milo whispered at them.

The Xiao Tanggu started a high pitched song, drummed by agile fingers, each sound ringing clearer than the other. A woman in Chinese silk and Peking opera-singer make-up stepped forward and motioned the rhythm's pace. The sound rushed forward and stopped, suddenly punctuated by a larger Tanggu that picked up the rhythm. Then silence as she placed her hand upon the fabric covering and steady drumming, accompanied by a silk instrument that Milo didn't have enough knowledge to place.

The dust rose as a giant arbalest was revealed and the smell in the air wafted more powerfully towards them, sweet as spun sugar. A large bolt was carefully presented for veracity and then carefully loaded.

The woman removed a single feather out of her impressive Toukui and presented it again, in gentle, delicate motions. Then she let it fall into the bowl. With a thundering sound, the bolt ripped a hole inside the wooden panel brutally and efficiently.

John and his date – Sarah, she assumed from the shouting earlier – both flinched in unison with the crowd. Whispers of excitement consumed the people around, then rounds of applause, in which she joined politely, without much vivacity.

A man with a sculpted mask, instead of the normal painted one, dressed in metal and chainmail took the prime attention of the audience.

"Look at his mask" Milo said. "It's unlike any other mask of the Peking opera I've seen but the traditions were followed: the Black on the mask symbolizes a fierce and bold character or an impartial, selfless personality. I think this one is meant to represent The Warrior"

Chains were wrapped around him and he was pushed back, to the wooden panel, where they started to tie him to it.

"Classic Chinese escapology act" Sherlock took the explanation. "The crossbow's on a delicate string. The Warrior has to escape his bond before it fires"

Another bolt was carefully loaded, with the same delicate motions as before. The woman seemed to be putting together an innocent puzzle rather than loading a deadly weapon. Her grace was counterposed with the man's sudden, bulky movements and his yell as he was tied tighter to the board.

A small Wuhan Chau gong was hit, providing a sharp, metallic sound like a splash, spreading waves of the note. Sarah jumped, hanging onto John, who jumped himself before they started laughing.

Then the woman removed a short, thick knife out of the basket of bolts and presented it to the crowd.

"She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out…" Sherlock's voice droned, almost as if he was a part of the performance. "Gradually the weight lowers into the bowl…"

She did so, almost exactly, without aiming at a particular point in the bag and set the dagger down. The man started to make muffled shouts as he struggled into his chains…

The sand fell gradually, with a susurrus, the weight lowered, the man grunted…and the woman watched.

It was the perfect moment to slip away.

"I still hate the circus" Milo muttered as she and Sherlock moved towards the backstage.

Props in an unordered fashion, clothes, bags and boxes had taken over the space. There was little light there, outside of a light bulb overhead and that which came from the stage, drawing long sinister shadows. The scent of incense and paint intensified.

The music had changed, the silk instrument taking over now, fully. Sherlock moved the stage curtain back to reveal a man holding onto two long ribbons of silk broidered at the edge with golden thread, dangling without a net, over lit candles.

"Well, well…" he muttered.

"That is a fire hazard waiting to happen" she raised an eyebrow.

A door opened loudly. They split in opposite directions, Sherlock behind the coat racks, Milo sliding between the boxes, in the shadow, with an unrivaled view over the dressing table. She quickly stuffed her hair in her hood, its color susceptible to being discovered.

The woman took her phone and looked it over, before a motion from the coat rack gave away Sherlock's position. She glanced towards it but said nothing and swept by, right by Milo, who caught a whiff of sandalwood and powder.

Another door sound, this time closing. Milo slipped away from the shadows and to the dressing table, rifling through the drawers. Sherlock came from behind the coat rack with a can of paint, drawing a straight line.

"What the hell are you…" she paused as her eyes were drawn to the back where sounds emerged. Time seemed to slow down, two figures coming in from between the props, attacking with – of all things – a dao.

One went after Sherlock, the other after her. Swords swung at them. She dodged behind the dressing table. He followed. She pirouetted and bended backwards. The sword left the air cold in its wake as it stabbed at nothing. Hands backwards, she kicked forward, the flat of her foot connecting with his head. There wasn't much force behind it due to the position. He shook his head and continued to go after her. She jumped out of his path, eyes following Sherlock. He was parrying blows with the can of paint.

Distracted, she barely dodged, sinking to the floor only to feel her scalp extended. Hair strands fell onto her face, the blade caught in the wood, having chopped a centimeter or so of her tips. Her eyes widened. Then she kicked again. His sword – and her hair – remained embedded in the wood as she knocked him off his feet only for him to jump right up. Nearby clatter meant Sherlock had also disarmed his opponent.

A hand reached to the left. She followed it. The only magic in a fight was misdirection…she'd forgotten that. The hit split her lip. A thin line of drool escaped through the corner of her mouth. She jumped backwards and to the side, escaping a kick. The other, she couldn't do anything about. It caught her fully in the back. Somehow, even though she was on her stomach, her legs closed around the man's throat. She pivoted her hips. His face crashed into the floor. A crack emerged in the mask, but he managed to try and stand up. She wound her leg around, sliding behind him. He was about to fall, but first she choked him. Her arms were lithe, limber, holding like snakes around his forehead and throat and then her leg was around his other leg and pushing him to the ground.

She counted silently to five and let him go. He wasn't moving. Blood was flowing down her lip and into her mouth. She swallowed and licked it off. Her first concern was to see if Sherlock was still alive. He was, and the moment was just in time to see Sarah beat the man into unconsciousness with a crossbow bolt. It would have been an amusing scene had she had the time to appreciate it.

"Milo!" John shouted.

"I'm fine" she yelled back, her second concern being to check her hair. It was just a centimeter and in her normal mood, she wouldn't have considered it special…she had plenty of it to spare, but she was inexplicably angry about it.

"Come on" Sherlock said, seeing that she wasn't moving and John reinforced it, by grabbing Sarah's hand. "Let's go!"

She bit down on a curse word at the tip of her tongue and ran after them. It was outside, in a cab that their eyes were drawn to the split lip.

"Are you alright?" Sarah asked, gently.

"Fine, thank you" but her appreciation words were sharp. She put her fingers to her lip but it had stopped bleeding and instead she held the strands of hair like an open wound to her chest.

"Scotland Yard" were the instructions Sherlock gave to the driver.

"Drop me off at the next alley" she told the driver.

"You're not coming with us?" John asked, sitting with his date in the facing seats.

"No" she retorted brusquely. "Here will be fine" she said louder, for the cabbie and quickly got off. "I'll call you if I learn anything" she said and closed the car door.

When she found herself alone, in the dark, on an alley, she stopped and took a breath. She did the stupidest things at high emotions: anger, hate, love.

Her phone was in her hands, finding the proper number and then…

"Nei ho, Li Shen" she greeted. "Haven't heard from you in a long time"

* * *

He was virtually a child.

A child, sent off to meet with a person against whom the Triads once sent assassins that failed to report back. A person who would get shot as soon as she stepped off the plane with so many bullets, she might die of lead poisoning before succumbing to the wounds. A person who was remembered for pissing off all the organizations at once and escaping, very nearly unscathed, with one of their biggest treasures.

They didn't expect him to return. He was nervous and trying heroically to stop trembling, possibly expecting some sort of giant with lightning for eyes.

Her presence disappointed, she was well aware.

"Are you the one Li Shen sent?" she asked coldly. The least she could have done was give him a story. One so scary that he might be able to use it and brag to his potential friends or employers about the meeting with the legendary Snake Eyes.

"A-are you…Snake?" he tried to control his voice.

"Do you have something for me or not?" she growled, low and menacing, taking a step forward.

He took two steps back. "S-sure" he patted his pockets as if there was a bomb waiting for him, counting down. 3…2…1…

"Found it!" he panted with a grin, stretching his hand, almost wanting it to jump off and hand it over, as far away from the rest of him as possible.

She took it with a glare in the kid's direction and looked at it. It was conclusive to what Li Shen had told her. The next glance sent the kid running. It was only after he was out of view that she started laughing instead.

* * *

Sherlock was angry. He hadn't meant for things to get out of control at the Theatre. He hadn't meant to get hurt. He hadn't meant for Milo to get hurt or have John's day ruined. He also hadn't meant for Dimmock to find an empty stage, or be saddled with _Sarah_ for the rest of the day. It meant having her touching _his _papers and having John distracted, leaving him with no one to talk the case through because Milo had jumped off right when the police was to be involved.

When he had crashed into the German tourists, he was ready to scream, throw a tantrum or punch someone right there.

But most of all…he hadn't wanted for John and his date to be taken.

He had a bitterness in his mouth, a ball of nerves in his stomach and as usual, in dire situations, he tried to step outside of the problem. But it wasn't he who was threatened – that was something he could deal with and always had – but his…his _friend_. And if his little girlfriend were to be hurt, his friend would never forgive him. And the cab simply didn't move fast enough…

His cell phone rang. A generic ringtone – he didn't care enough to change and personalize, doing so bored him – made him look at the name.

M.

For a man who usually preferred to text, he answered unusually fast.

"Yes?"

"Kingsway Tram tunnels. That's their rendezvous spot" came the low voice, sounds of her surroundings betraying the fact that she was inside a cab.

"I know. What else?" he asked.

"What do you mean, you know?" there was a slight pause. "What happened?"

"They took John" he answered and the statement of the fact hit him full force again, as if saying it turned it to reality.

"Crap. I'll be there in five. Ten, tops. _Do not_ go inside without me"

He could hear the italics. In a way, he was glad she called. He didn't have to go inside alone, mathematics agreeing with them better than they would have otherwise. The odds improved to a situation that was more bearable. He hung up, looking at the road again, wishing for the car to move faster.

The Kingsway Tramway awaited.

* * *

"Anything wrong?" the cabbie asked her, probably noticing the fact that somehow, she'd gotten even paler, contrasting in vivid, unhealthy ways with the cut on her lower lip that was slowly turning violet.

For some reason, when she was alone, she only got the chatty ones.

"Everything is wrong" she muttered, now convinced that there was some sort of curse hanging upon Sherlock and all of his companions and that's she'd slowly inched her way into it.

"It will work out" the cabbie said confidently and reassuringly. "Look at me. I owe a guy three hundred quid. Have to give it to him by the end of the week, or else, but here I am, doing overtime, taking it one day at the time. It's the only thing you can do"

She looked at the window, unconvinced. "Tell you what. You get me where I need to go in less than five minutes…I will give you the three hundred quid"

"Are-are you serious?" he asked as if she was insane.

The car sped away regardless of speed bumps or limits. They had gotten there first. Through the open window, Milo presented three hundred and fifty pounds to the man.

"God help you, lady. You're a life-saver" he'd muttered, looking at the bills.

"I'm not one for religion but switch it to Lady Luck and I'll be forever grateful" she retorted. "I want you to do something for me, though. Something very important"

"Shoot, lady"

"Ten minutes from now, on the clock, I want you to call the Scotland Yard and ask for a detective…" she searched her brain for an inkling of a name. "…Dimmock. Tell him exactly where we are now and that here's the answer to his case. Oh and bring backup. A lot of it"

The cabbie, a round face with a large nose and no hair, looking like a heated egg, frowned at her as only someone who was a father could. "Are you in trouble?"

"I will be in ten minutes. Can you do that?"

"Sure thing" he nodded, pocketing the cash. "Lady Luck help you, then"

With a wave, his cab sped off.

"Let's hope so" she muttered in his wake.

Sherlock's ride was a minute away and neither greeted each other as they headed for the tunnel entryway. In a city like London, abandoned tunnels were not truly a wonder. The last trams that had circulated there had been in 1952, used to store the cars before part of it was altered into a road tunnel in '58. There weren't any visible tracks, it was damp and cold, more so than the normal English air and after a couple of meters running, they were both panting.

There was no plan. Or rather, outside of Sherlock going ahead and distracting them – doing what? Dancing? – while Milo sneaked ahead and possibly get shot, there was nothing certain.

There was a familiar susurrus in the air. Sand.

Then a yell. "I'M NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

John.

"I don't believe you!"

Possibly Shan.

"You should, you know" Sherlock said, loud and clear. They shared a look, while he stood clearly in the light. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him"

He ducked when the sound of a handgun was heard. It was a decent spot…but they'd bottlenecked themselves. She wondered how well they could see in the dark.

"How would you describe me, John?" he said with a tone of superiority quite unlike a man currently hiding. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Bloody egocentric?" Milo muttered, watching as one dummy was headed their way.

"That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over one thousand meters per second" he stated.

"Well?" the woman asked, not seeing the point.

Milo watched with a raised eyebrow as Sherlock took the dummy out with a pipe, then dragged him to their corner. She removed his gun and a knife from his jacket.

"Well…the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone" he nodded to Milo. She grabbed a small slab of concrete. "Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you" he jumped out and kicked at a flaming trashcan. Milo tossed the concrete at one farther ahead, the force knocking it down.

He ran to help Sarah. She ran forward, towards John, dodging arms that compared to her seemed huge. Then she was grabbed, completely and off the ground painfully. She struggled just to gain enough momentum and then…Her head snapped back. With a howl, he dropped her on her feet. She swiped her leg around his, making him fall on his back and ran for Sherlock. A hand grabbed her ankle. Annoyingly persistent fellow. She brought her other leg down forcefully. Snap, went the delicate bones of his hand. His howl was interrupted by a savage kick to the head.

Then a snap of the arbalest string…

Horrified, she turned to the place where Sherlock and Sarah had been. To see Zhi Zhu stagger back, a large bolt in his stomach, falling back. Her shoulders slumped in relief, with a small amount of pain. Sherlock moved to remove Sarah's bindings and she rushed to John, helping him in a more comfortable position before taking out her knife and starting to cut his very thick bindings.

"Don't worry" he panted towards Sarah, who was crying with fear and stress. "The next date won't be like this" he smiled.

She started laughing in a mixture of blissful relief and shock and as soon as John was free, Milo jumped to her feet and hugged the woman. She was fiercely hugged back.

"Calm down. You're fine now. You're okay" she muttered slowly, caressing her hair and wiping away the tears. She tried to turn her head but Milo kept her still. "No, don't look. Come on" she helped Sarah out of her chair and towards John who had rubbed his hands and took over as comfort shoulder.

Milo turned to Sherlock with a tired smile that showed off her bruised, split lip. "Are we done yet?"

He nodded, starting to steady his breath. She stepped closer, lifting his chin. "That'll bruise" The skin was already discolored and on a complexion like his, violet spots wouldn't fail to appear.

"Better than the alternative" he quipped, fixing his scarf.

She started laughing. "Isn't it just? Urgh, speaking of" she raised her camisole to her chest, looking at her ribs. Bluish purple marks had already begun to form. She dropped the piece of fabric with a sigh. "I should start wearing body armor around you…" she laughed before slightly cringing.

"Stop! Police!" could be heard from further along the tunnel.

"Who called them?" Sherlock turned around, surprised.

"Guilty" Milo raised her hand. "Should have definitely said five minutes…" she muttered to herself.

The rest of the events happened without much fuss. Sherlock had redirected the questions to himself and the attention away from her, something she was genuinely grateful for. Sarah received a blanket and denied any sort of pills or examinations. And Emilia stole a candy bar from the paramedic's pocket and was enjoying the chocolate relief, sitting on the ground in a corner.

When it was time to leave, Milo walked near the detective as the two lovebirds went ahead. It seemed as though, at least she'd been right. Danger did bring people closer.

"We'll just slip off. No need to mention us in your report" he told the inspector.

"At all" she muttered as she went by, not caring about the rest of the conversation. All she cared about was that there was a mattress tossed on the hardwood floor in her house with her name on it, and she didn't care if there were sheets on it or not. John took Sarah home. Sherlock and Milo shared a taxi home, seeing as their respective flats weren't far away from each other. And then, there was sweet, dreamless bliss.

The second day found Milo at 221B Baker Street right after breakfast, dressed in a shapeless white linen dress that reached the floor, which flew at her slightest movement. It made a note of distinction amongst dark colored peers, particularly between two men taller than herself, perfectly hiding her predicament. Her ribs hurt and had turned black over the night, disallowing most of her clothing and her face was covered in enough make-up to make any marks unseen, though the lower lip was still swollen. As she had assumed, Sherlock's throat had started to turn blue, though at a slower rate than her skin. John's temple had been properly cleaned and cared for and only the swelling and small cut reminded them that he had been hurt. The spirits were high, though, enough to the tension to drain out of the two.

Their destination was the place where it all started. Shad Sanderson.

"Two operatives based in London. They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin" Sherlock started putting the situation into words.

"Worth nine million pounds" John completed.

"I've seen stranger things" Milo flew down the path, placing a hand over her hair comb, a delicate little treasure that kept the hair out of her face, decorated with flowers out of perfectly circular pearls and small white sapphires. She'd taken it from a failed wedding when the groom found out that the bride had actually liked her bridesmaid more than him. They had had no idea of its value and tossed it off in an argument.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was in China"

"How do you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis? Even the killer didn't know that"

"Because of the soap"

John looked at him consternated then turned to her. She shrugged and walked ahead. Amanda was ambushed and Milo allowed her to be, considering all the damage that had been caused because of her. John, had instead chosen to gloat over Sebastian. She thought it was the best idea he had had since they met.

The ambush first consisted of Sherlock calling her on the phone, then showing up behind her. Definitely theatrical. Confronted with the fact that yes, she did sleep with her boss – big surprise – she didn't deny it.

"Someone's been gossiping" she replied.

"No"

"Then I don't understand why…"

"Scented hand soap in his apartment. Three hundred milliliters of it. Bottle almost finished" he detailed, hands in his pocket, as if he was watching a play.

"Sorry…?"

"I don't think Eddie Van Coon was the type of chap to buy himself hand soap. Not unless he had a lady coming over. And it's the same brand as that hand cream there on your desk"

Milo leaned on the desk, looking at her expression. "Look, it wasn't serious between us" She wanted it to be. "It was over in a flash. It couldn't last. He was my boss" And she would wanted him not to be.

"What happened? Why did you end it?"

"I thought he didn't appreciate me" she looked down. "Took me for granted. Stood me up once too often. We'd plan to go away for the weekend and then he'd just leave" she gave a sad smile. "Fly off to China at a moment's notice…"

"And he brought you a present from abroad to say sorry" he concluded for himself. "Can I just have a look at it?" he extended his hand.

She carefully took it out of her hair. "He said he bought it in a street market"

"Oh, I don't think that's true. I think he pinched it" his eyes looked for confirmation at the thief. Milo's eyes were wide and sparkling, transparent hand hovering just slightly above it, barely daring to touch it. His hand quickly closed on it, holding it out of reach for her.

Amanda looked oddly at her reaction then gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah, that's Eddie"

"Didn't know its value, just thought it would suit you" he held it out to look at it better, still keeping Milo at bay.

"Oh? What's it worth?" she asked, waiting for some sort of satisfaction out it.

He smiled wickedly. "Nine…million…pounds"

He face fell all at once, stepping back, nearly falling with her chair. "Oh my God!" she muttered twice and stepped away as if drunk. Sherlock grinned.

"Nine million?!" she shouted disbelievingly. Milo shook her head and started laughing.

She got a call later that day. A call from China. She'd excused herself for a moment before declaring that the Jade Pin had been discovered, but had also attracted too much unwanted attention. It was now impossible to recover. Li Shen had no reason not to believe her nor had he ways to check. He was quite agreeable with the loss of nine million, just as long as there was someone to take the fall, someone to make an example out of. The money would have been nice, but it wasn't worth the entire operation. There would be other pins…

The newspapers were abuzz. Stupid titles abounded, together with atrocious puns. "Who wants to be a million-hair" was just one of the better ones. Neither of them really bothered reading about it. Living it had been enough.

"Over a thousand years old…and it's sitting on her bedside table every night" John commented to Sherlock, during lunch.

"He didn't know its value. Didn't know why they were chasing him"

"Hm…should've just got her a lucky cat" he muttered, the calico on the desk waving its approval.

"What is she going to do with it?" Milo asked, from the windowsill.

"She didn't say. Probably donate it to a museum" Sherlock answered.

"Urgh…what a waste" she made a face.

There was a pause, when Sherlock's expression turned serious.

"You mind, don't you?" John asked.

"What?"

"That she escaped. General Shan. It's not enough that we got her henchmen"

"It must be a vast network, John. Thousands of operatives. You and I, we barely scratched the surface" he turned the pages of the paper, looking for other news rather than the ones he was a part of.

"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock. And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them, now that he knows it"

"No. No, I crack this code, all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book"

"Come on, boys" Milo smiled, sitting at the windowsill. "Don't worry about Shan. I doubt she's still around Britain anyway" …or anywhere, she wanted to say. It was fine. Everything was fine.

And as the boy painted a four and a two in basic Chinese characters on the mailbox in front of their apartment, she was quite sure that no one from the East would bother Sherlock Holmes much. Or possibly ever again.

It was a day later that Milo entered her home, nearly tripping on a small, thin package that had been slid under the door. She unfurled it quickly, tossing her keys to the table and then twirled the item carefully between her fingers.

It was a Peranakan gold hairpin in the shape of a dragon. The same one she had liked at the museum. She looked over the paper, then outside for clues to the identity of her gift-giver.

There was nothing there.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading and thank you for the reviews. I hope you enjoyed it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Benedict Chess**

* * *

"_Will you walk into my parlor?" Said the Spider to the Fly;__  
__'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy. ~ __The Spider and the Fly, Mary Howitt_

* * *

When the explosion hit the news, Milo was conducting business in ways she usually did: at the poker table. Bottles and bottles of whiskey littered the floor and tables, glasses, crystal, matted with fingerprints, lipstick, slimy cocktails or greasy smears all around the table, snacks tossed back and forth; they did not matter. All that mattered were the cards, a fresh deck brought out for the evening and the cash, sitting in a pile in the centre of the table.

The television was running in the background, turned on more for the sake of an additional source of light beside the half-blind light bulb above. They had been playing all night, discussing quite a lot and nothing at the same time, testing each other's endurance more than actually planning something.

Milo's eyes had strayed towards it out of boredom.

Her table was filled of those who spent half an hour at least before deciding whether she was bluffing or not and the amount of money provided no excitement against it. There was enough of that as soon as she read 'House destroyed on Baker St".

She didn't even have to wonder.

It screamed Sherlock's name in a way so typical of the man, that her mind didn't even stray to the other tenants that might lodge on that street, regardless of the fact that it was quite long. She rose from the table and ran outside, business be damned, five thousand pounds (betted on a particularly decent bluff) be damned. Her alcohol evaporated out of her veins in seconds.

She simply ran, not even taking a cab, years and years of forced exercise not helping her an inch; her lungs felt like exploding, her throat closed up and her muscles tense to the point of breaking.

She stopped right by 221B Baker Street and examined the damage. The opposite building was wrecked, four rooms suddenly exposed, nothing left out of the walls but rubble and cement beams. Not a single window pane had been left undamaged in the nearby radius. Four police cars and one fire truck were present along with a considerable number of onlookers.

Milo jumped over the barricades and towards the door of the detective, past the police.

"My friend lives her" she tossed to one of them and opened the door, running up the stairs, only to find the two Holmes brothers face to face, both looking particularly annoyed with each other – in as much as either would allow themselves to look. No one was hurt. Blood and brain matter seemed all in its place. The tiredness evaporated out of her muscles.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" she huffed, tossing her jacket off due to the heat and sweat.

"Oh, you called?" Sherlock muttered, uninterested. "I hadn't noticed"

She shook her head, too exhausted to get angry and looked at the damage instead. Cloth and plastic covered the windows, glass was all over the place along with papers that might have been on the desk (you could never tell with Sherlock) and almost every surface around was covered in cement and plaster dust.

"Emilia, don't tell me you ran over here?" Mycroft asked, the tiny little quirk of his lips telling her that he was mocking. "Worried, were you?"

She raised an eyebrow at him and showed him the middle finger. The fact that the quirk only grew made her angrier. Sherlock's eyes watched the interaction, alert, but his face betrayed nothing.

He couldn't have known that it was their normal sort of interaction, that Mycroft liked to annoy her and he brought out her most childish side. If there was ever a man in the entire world that could have made even the most serious and mature individuals blow a raspberry, it was Mycroft. But she suspected Sherlock already knew that.

She pulled out a cigarette from the back pocket of her jeans along with a lighter.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Gas leak" Sherlock gestured towards the remains of the window.

She made a face and lit her cigarette anyway. Nothing happened. She drew smoke out of it with a frightening intensity and leaned on the desk, every other surface thick with dust.

Milo had been worried, which hit her all too suddenly. She wouldn't have ran like a madman otherwise.

Yes, the man had grown on her. He represented free entertainment, interesting stories, a difference from her usual life and someone who didn't mind sitting in silence, which meant more than being able to talk. The last thing she wanted to do was let him know that.

His bloody ego had its own gravitational pull already.

* * *

When the explosion hit the news, John had barely woken up, stiff and hurting from spending a night on the sofa. He should have gone with the lilo, but that was a point for another time. He quite liked having a place to go to, step away from Sherlock and simply spend a quiet night in. The lack of boredom was nice but it could get quite tiresome.

His relationship to Sarah had been going well, better than he had expected considering he had gotten her kidnapped by Chinese Mafia and very nearly killed by crossbow, though he was beginning to wonder what would happen next. And because he didn't know that, he didn't insist. He had no qualms about grabbing his jacket and leaving, only shouting his goodbye, and he didn't much care about what discussions would follow up.

He had a ball in his throat, thinking of Sherlock, whether he was alive, dead, hurt. What had happened to Mrs Hudson?

He took a cab to the corner of the street and hurried to his flat. Shouting for Sherlock proved in vain, though the picture he was greeted with, as he reached their flat was both soothing and aggravating.

"John?" Sherlock asked him calmly, plucking the violin cords. Mycroft only looked mildly curious.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?" he asked, just shocked enough at both the event and his attitude.

"Me? What? Oh, yeah. Fine" he briefly glanced at the covered windows. "Gas leak, apparently"

"Gas leak? And you're smoking?" he looked at Milo who looked somehow like he felt. She glared at him icily and took a long deep breath, as if to spite him. He looked nearly astounded at the damage, taking it all in and trying to get over the shock while the two brothers argued.

He only started listening when he heard his name. He turned to them, still disconcerted and asked an undecided 'What?'

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent" Mycroft confessed, ignoring his state of mind.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock suggested in a low voice and childish tone.

He touched one of the curtains and wiped his hands together. There was dust everywhere, outside dust, thick and grimy and it would take forever to clean. The windows alone would take a fortune to replace. Every paper had to be put into place and items checked for damage.

"No, no, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…" he paused. Both he and Sherlock stopped and looked at him carefully. Milo snorted, amused, and probably more informed than he was and took another unhealthy lungful of smoke.

"Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" he rectified. "Besides, a case like this, it requires…legwork" he muttered distastefully. Sherlock plucked a high pitched cord.

"I'm disappointed we don't have Thanksgiving. To be a fly on the wall on that sort of dinner in the Holmes household" Milo muttered, squishing out her cigarette and jumped off the desk, walking towards the kitchen and answering her phone. His head and back hurt. It was too early for everything. He should have had breakfast first. And tea or coffee.

Pointedly ignoring everyone else, Sherlock addressed him. "How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa" Mycroft corrected, looking at his pocket watch instead of at him.

His flat mate turned to him. "Oh…yes, of course"

"How-oh, never mind" he shook his head, in the end not even wanting to know, and sat down on the sofa.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became…pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine"

That wasn't something John would have said. Exciting, sometimes tiresome, interesting, potentially lethal…

"I'm never bored" he simply stated.

"Good" he gave a worrying smile – worrying because he was smiling. "That's good, isn't it?"

He got up as Sherlock began to flick the violin bow in the air, not even deigning the folder with a glance.

"Ah, the dreaded _manila_ folder" Milo came out of the kitchen with a glass of alcohol. "Did anyone ever receive good news in a manila folder, I wonder…"

"Where did you get that? We don't even _have_ scotch" John asked, events pilling up. It was odd that out of everything that had happened, he clung to that, but it was better than thinking about explosions.

"Emilia has the natural gift of finding alcohol even in the strangest of places" Mycroft filled in.

She mockingly mimicked behind his back. Sherlock grinned. Then she tossed her head back and drank the whole glass.

"I gotta go" she grabbed her coat and put the glass down. "See you when I see you" she raised an imaginary hat to Mycroft and addressed Sherlock with a "Don't get killed". He got a smile.

Then she went down the stairs, looking, to him, just a little bit upset.

Ignoring her departure, Mycroft handed the folder to him. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends" He looked at Sherlock then at the folder and took it. "Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks of Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in"

"Jumped in front of a train?" John ventured.

"Seems the logical assumption"

John liked to think that he had learned something with everything that had happened and the pause at the end of the sentence made him smirk, amused. "But…"

"But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident" he elaborated, slightly unsure. Sherlock's short chuckle reassured him, however.

"The MoD is working on a new missile defense system: the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick"

He laughed. "That wasn't very clever"

"It's not the only copy" Mycroft indulged with an annoyed tone. "But it is secret. And missing"

"Top secret?" he asked.

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you"

"I'd like to see you try" he fixed his violin on his shoulder.

"Think it over" Mycroft turned to him and extended a hand. "Goodbye John. See you very soon."

John didn't really doubt it. He was the type that made you see him even if you didn't want to.

* * *

Lewis' ringtone was Kenny Roger's "Coward of the County". Instinctively, he let it reach the chorus. He drank his full glass and looked at the phone screen, flicking the ash off the end of her cigarette.

_It's time. M. _

He took another drag out of the strong tobacco and typed a reply. Then he tossed a bill on the counter, nodded to Donnie and walked out.

* * *

When Milo was little, her mother used to say that bad things usually came in threes.

Her mother said a lot of things, some superstitious, some strange but she had managed to imbue into her younger version a sense that there was, in fact, something out there, even if it really hated you and counted the number of times it could screw you over in a single day.

If she was right, and she usually was (her daughter would say eerily so), that meant that Milo's day had been ruined ever since it started. The first one was Sherlock and the loss of money, but she counted them both as one single event seeing as it was his fault. The second was Mycroft. Because…_Mycroft_. And it wasn't that she hated him for a particular purpose – he was entertaining most of the time – but every single time she'd ever met him, it indicated some sort of change. The important kind.

Being superstitious as she was, it felt particularly disturbing. She lit another cigarette and crossed the street.

She'd rarely had bad starting days in New York. Whenever she got up, she used to go have breakfast in a tiny place, by her flat served by a waitress Milo had wanted to marry, straight or not. Everything was always perfectly cooked and the coffee was a piece of heaven tasted with every swallow, refilled often and gratis. It was the only routine she'd ever cared for, tolerated and enjoyed, for both its reliability and differences. In Hawaii, every night was spent on the beach so that every day ended well and after surfing in the sunset, a mate taught her how to fire dance. Sri Lanka had a lot to do to appease a bad day: whale watching, elephant zoo-keeping, hot air ballooning, adventure tours or nature trails…

London was … something she knew for a very long time. Everything was familiar and nothing helped. That made her uncomfortable in ways regular people didn't really understand.

If she was upset, she didn't know why. She'd lost money, but the man was probably halfway under the table by the time she was out. Money, she could get again. She lost more on horses every day if she wanted a thrill. Respect …didn't really matter at the time because any excuse would do. If someone wasn't willing to believe that she had better things to do, it meant they didn't have enough respect for her anyway.

She was considering a move. A random ticket…somewhere. Do whatever she did when she felt bored, dead, alienated: go to the airport and ask for a ticket to whatever location was leaving soon and to faraway places. The opening car door ahead only reminded her of the imminent cab ride. She already knew what she would pack…a handful of jewellery and spare clothes. There was nothing keeping her in London. There never was anyone keeping her anywhere; just a dinner, a fire dance on the beach and whales…

And because she ignored the car, even as the door opened, it cut her off at the end of the street.

A man holding a snifter, in an elegant suit looked at her directly. "Get in"

She gave a large, wide smile. "I'm sorry mate, not without dinner" she headed to go around.

"Look around" he stated simply.

Milo didn't.

"There's tourists and a mom taking her daughter to the St. Marylebone School further down the road and she didn't do her homework. There's a couple going to the dance studio further on Baker Street. They're rehearsing their dance for their wedding. The guy that just passed works at Starbucks and should have started his shift earlier but he was stoned all of last night and woke up somewhere other than his home. If there is a gunman you're hinting at, it's probably a sniper. Out of these buildings, it's more likely the one right on the corner, residential – easy to get into – not the left or the right. Limited visibility. Why cripple yourself? Can't be in the building in the front because the entrances are both camera monitored and there are guards. This _is_ London. I'm assuming it's a threat otherwise you wouldn't have stopped in two spots, both blind spots. What I am wondering, however, is this: Exactly why do you think I couldn't walk away or simply dodge into a nearby shop?" she crossed her arms.

The passenger seat opened. The only thing visible in the window was the reflection of a hand holding a gun.

"Ah" she cocked her head. "Well, it is something I should have expected. Can I have a drink of that?"

* * *

The strongbox found in the flats on Baker Street, experts said, was of the TXTL-60 rating, the highest order of security, impenetrable by flame, explosion, brute force or torches.

One of them, in particular, had been more excited than he would have been at Christmas, Lestrade decided. It was evident in his fluster and overflow of information. In between vivid descriptions, some gushing (undignified for a police expert) and long winded descriptions, he understood enough.

Most people – even obscenely rich individuals – rarely needed more than a TL-15 or TRTL. The TXTL was impervious to explosions, could withstand more than simple fire for _hours _and was a largely dissuasive protective measure against simple thieves. Nitro-glycerine didn't work, the expert was careful to elaborate, assuming that they knew the sort of explosion _that_ caused.

The only thing that had surprised the expert more than employ of such a safe box was the fact that the manual override had worked. That had been enough to stun him into silence and make him take a step back.

The bomb squad had been called immediately along with an Ammunition Technical Officer. If there had been a bomb in the flat, it was fairly logical the box could have been a sort of Trojan Horse, ready to take out the Met headquarters. To say that they were shocked to find a simple envelope would be to attribute higher meaning to the word and possibly changing its description in the Oxford dictionary.

Flabbergasted was a better one as it, at least, implied a slack jaw and brain turned to mush.

Needless to say that said envelope was scanned, re-scanned, tested and re-tested and finally prodded with a long stick when the ATO had complained about being called in for nothing.

It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes, which was, at least, expected since he seemed to get drawn into odd cases like other people lost socks.

Invariably, that meant calling in the man.

"Are you sure about this?" Sally asked, as they were staring at the white, innocent piece of paper.

"It's his, isn't it?"

Sally didn't dispute the obvious, displeased though she was. "But are you sure you want to call him?"

"The guy blew up a flat to draw our attention to this. Can you imagine what he'd do if we'd keep it hidden?"

Of course, that was one of the reasons why Sherlock shouldn't be called. He (until the gender was disproved) _blew up _a flat.

Lestrade knew that Sherlock, while commonly a site on the most interesting crimes, was not one of them. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes was a civilian and the title he'd set for himself – _consulting_ detective – didn't change that for a single moment. By the letter of the law, there was no distinction between the brilliant man and a helpless teenage girl. And even if Donovan didn't like him in the station, her words did echo purposefully in his mind.

Could he call the man in and put him in potentially lethal danger? At any other time, the answer would have been no. The envelope would have been stored, locked away and forgotten, no one being left the wiser.

It wasn't just any other time, however.

He _**blew up**_a flat.

No one was safe. And if more explosions happened, the inhabitants might end up being home. This was just…a warning shot. But like all warning shots, they were singular. The next one would take someone's head off.

He looked into Donovan's eyes when he picked up the phone and she shook her head and left to her desk.

* * *

"Choose"

A finger pressed against the folder. "Her"

* * *

The entire department at the Met was carefully and thoroughly ignoring their duties. They shuffled paper to and from without much enthusiasm and paid little heed to what was written on said papers. One particularly distracted individual was pretending to write a report on what seemed to be his wife's grocery list.

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't notice. He was, on his own terms, distracted with the idea of being called so suddenly and so urgently and the steps his long legs took were rushed in anticipation, while Lestrade was dancing around the subject.

Not even Donovan had said a word as they passed by, even as she raised her eyes to look at him.

The sense of alacrity was thick.

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No"

"No?"

"No. Made to look like one" Lestrade entered his office and looked at the envelope pointedly. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strongbox" he felt like details were required especially after that much trouble. "A _very_ strong box. And inside it was this"

He didn't pick it up, just pointed.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock looked at it carefully.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?"

Lestrade, in truth, hadn't even felt tempted.

"We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped" he shortened the experience, not truly willing to elaborate on the measures he'd taken for a simple little paper envelope. After all, the thing looked innocent enough.

"How reassuring" the detective replied, not in the least bit thankful. When had he ever been?

He didn't step back as the man grabbed the envelope and set it under the light, though he wanted to. And when he started examining it, he couldn't control his curiosity.

"Nice stationery. Bohemian" he whispered, sounding barely intelligible to the DI.

"What?"

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No"

Sherlock carefully moved the envelope under the light. That careful penmanship…was rare. Someone who'd taken calligraphy at some point in their life. Reminded him, slightly, of the letters Milo had written around the symbols from the Black Lotus case, but with a much older style of letters: the 'o' specifically. Milo's writing had been all cursive. So, someone who had taken calligraphy far too long ago, long enough for their writing to be subjected to deformities.

"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, Meridian nib"

"She?"

"Obviously"

Sherlock obtained a pocket knife from his coat and snapped it open. The paper split nicely, evenly and he could appreciate the thickness of it, now considered obsolete and expensive for no good reason. Quality envelopes were becoming rarer and rarer. When it opened and nothing happened, there was a collective feeling of relief. Confusion intermingled with it when the detective pulled out a pink phone.

"That…that's the phone. The pink phone" John said, to them and to himself.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked, just as confused.

"Well…obviously, it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like-" he stopped and turned around. "Study in Pink?! You read his blog?"

And the tension in the office had defused almost completely. Because Sherlock could get psychological games, chemistry, criminalistics and logic progression of events but the need for humans to read that sort of 'trash' and comment on it in public _baffled _him.

"'Course I read his blog" Lestrade answered as if it were natural. "We all do" he gave the detective a look. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the Sun?"

Donovan laughed. She was the only one and got a look from both the man in question and Watson, who looked mildly embarrassed at the idea of having written that and more importantly, having it read by someone who didn't like his flatmate. It had been a simple observation and had he known that the police would read it or that it would cause so many comments, he would not have written it.

"It isn't the same phone" Sherlock mercifully intervened as the woman walked out. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means your _blog_ has a far wider readership" he looked at John meaningfully.

_You have one new message._

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

"Was that it?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"No, that's not it"

Another sound and an image filled the screen: a fireplace, peeling wallpaper, mould and a linoleum floor.

"What in hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips"

"It's a warning" Sherlock looked ahead, lost in his own thoughts.

"A warning?"

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips – things like that. Five pips" he explained. "They're warning us it's going to happen again" he started to walk, shaking the phone as evidence. "I've seen this place before…"

John followed. "Hang on. What's going to happen again?"

"Boom!"

* * *

In another part of the city, the sniper settled down for what was going to be a long day.

The trunk of a car was far from comfortable, the food was abysmal and he was sure to run out of coffee by the second stretch of the day. He'd been in worse situations, crawled through dust, sand, mouldy foliage, tall grass full of crickets and lizards and pointy branches. Far from comfortable but so much farther than the worse he'd been through.

He aimed to the woman's chest and waited for the signal.


	22. Chapter 22

**Persian Patience**

* * *

"_The more Susan waited, the more the doorbell didn't ring. Or the phone."__Douglas Adams__,__Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency_

* * *

When in a stressful and potentially dangerous situation, waiting for an opportunity was the wrong thing to do. Put simply, an advantageous situation is best seen in retrospect, after having something to compare it to, which meant that by the time you gained that retrospective look, you were already too far in for it to matter.

That didn't mean recklessness was the way to go.

They'd driven for almost two hours to the point where she wondered if they were going to take her and visit Stonehenge just for kicks. Even the slow-paced traffic of London was no aid, the door was locked, there were two men on each side of her seat and they'd exited London on the middle lane, so whichever way she jumped, the chances of being run over were at their best.

And all in all, compared to all of Milo's experiences, it was one of the nicest kidnappings she'd ever taken part of, glass of scotch in hand and gun in her ribs. She hadn't even been shot yet, which meant they had the real potential for alliance there. Really, if Milo had held a personal grudge against the people who had pointed a gun at her – no – wanted to _kill_ her, she wouldn't have had anyone to talk to at all.

Well, except those two troublemakers on Baker Street…

A brief – very brief – moment she thought that all of the situation was because of them by virtue of her not having done anything in the past months to ensure such an encounter. But then, that had never been a problem before and she had her own little situations occur from time to time. Assassins crawling out of the woodwork, blackmailers, rivals...

No, Sherlock's little 'whodunit's' barely scratched the surface. Now _Mycroft_…

Mycroft would have had her shoved in the trunk – possibly naked if such were her position at the time – and driven to the place of meeting, as he had done before.

This was her problem.

Her cell phones had been confiscated – cell _phones_ they had asked for. The _plural_. Being patted down relieved her of the three, two knives, one stiletto, her watch, her lock picks, her _key ring _of all things and several other small gadgets and widgets and junk she'd stashed on her person to aid an eventual break-in …or escape, including bits of string and a small plastic bag. A very nice pile had amused the men with her, who had them all stuffed into a bag.

And then offered her pastries.

She thought, for a moment, that she preferred Mycroft's trunks to this. At least he'd had the sense and respect to see her as dangerous.

"Why her?" The question hung in the air like bad odour, as if he hadn't been the one to introduce the charming little game and hadn't threatened her with a gun for it.

The room smelled of coffee and Virginia tobacco. The rest of the estate, however, had smelled of cleanliness and metal. The odd contrast between the cold and impersonal and the homey and familiar told her that somehow, the entire setup was a show playing just for her. It did not settle her nerves in the slightest, but she wasn't worried.

No, Milo was never worried or afraid. Not when all she had to take care of was herself.

Why someone would set something so elaborate, she couldn't imagine. The one who had done all the talking was tall, endlessly polite, middle-aged and the type who didn't lose his temper…

All in all, the sort of man who wouldn't come up with the situation at hand.

Outside of the gun, the whole situation seemed more like a Victorian courting ritual than a legitimate kidnapping; Rosenthal porcelain, crystal, fresh coffee and wine waiting for them in place near warm biscuits. A vase of irises was set nearby, on a grand piano. Her favourite flower, something subtle that smelled cold and only faintly of flower, a hint of old-fashioned…

It was stranger that the wine seemed tailored to her taste. She'd often been told she drank like a man: bourbon, scotch, dry reds…

Offering such a drink to a woman was strange, especially if offered without asking, especially when it wasn't even past lunch.

The entire room seemed designed by someone who'd wanted it to confine her for some time, at the height of luxury. Her personal gilded cage.

She'd have had to be a moron not to realize the fact that there was more security in it than the Tower of London.

"A whim" she answered, tipping the glass slightly and twirling it around her finger.

The white napkin had been stained with dark burgundy, the man carrying the gun having served them, clumsily, spilling small drops. He was out the door immediately after, but the shadow fell through the cracks at the door indicating his presence, still. At that point, Milo was wondering if the guard was for her…or for her host.

He didn't believe her, which meant he wasn't a complete idiot. She'd looked over the files, for one. She'd also picked the only one who had one major difference from the rest of the women presented. In a world where one plus one equalled three, she would have been safe, but it didn't and he had noticed. And he was being inquisitive.

"Was it because she didn't have children? Because she could die without being mourned by them?"

A smirk. _The _smirk. "Cardinal rule: _Everybody_ dies. Faster the little things learn that, the better they'll be"

He looked as if he had lost the modicum of respect he'd somehow gathered for her. If you couldn't make them love you, fear you or lust for you, upset them. Anger them to the point of suffocation, disgust them, horrify them, create the sort of strong emotion that strangled proper thought.

She sipped her Shiraz and kept the smirk on her face, while looking at the piano.

Getting there. She could wait.

* * *

Mycroft hadn't been as amused in years.

He could definitely understand exactly why Sherlock had become so attached to John Watson as the good impressions pilled on with every encounter. In his office, a long, tall, imposing sort of place, of items placed in their spot that spoke of millimetre precision and very little light, John was trying to appear casual.

Oh, but the suit was a nice touch. He wondered if he had been turned away without one. Mentioning his name had certain advantages in cutting the line, but of course, he had been the one to make the rules in the first place. Sherlock might have mentioned the requirements, but that seemed far too gracious to be his little brother's work.

Another possibility was that John had actually researched the institution.

He wasn't sure which seemed like the most impressive circumstance.

And he was pretending that Sherlock was actually working on the case, which was interesting enough.

Oh yes, Mycroft was amused. The break was well worth it, even with the paperwork and signatures and _Korea_.

As he recounted more of Andrew West's life, he wondered if John knew that Sherlock was stalling and if he knew that Mycroft knew. And he recounted the events even as pangs of pain filled his mouth and John's face was beginning to show comprehension at the apparent difficulty of the case.

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea? That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to" he cut to the question. "How is he getting on?"

"He's fine" John answered for a moment looking like a deer in the headlights, sparking another bout of amusement and then clarified. "And _it_" as if they were talking about pastries in the oven. "Is going very well"

Bad liar…You could trust bad liars if only because you knew exactly what to expect.

"He's a…well, you know, he's completely focused on it" he looked down and grinned goofily.

Good God, as if Mycroft hadn't even met his brother.

"Of course he is. Well, now that you have that information, if you could see yourself out" he gestured shortly towards the door.

"Ah, yeah sure. Hey, have you talked to Milo at all?" he asked, standing. "I kept trying to call her, you know and she won't answer"

Mycroft became serious, considering his words.

"Emilia isn't in the habit of reporting her location" he offered. "To me or anyone. In fact, she's rather adamant on hiding it"

The look on John's face said that, it wasn't _exactly_ true.

Mycroft knew that, too. Which was why he intended on driving that fact along. He'd had her phone records on a routine check-up and the calls that she had made was enough to peak his curiosity: short calls made regularly to John and the rare text to Sherlock. The same curiosity had made him listen into one simply to find that if she found anything interesting or funny (if mundane) she'd send it to John. She called to say she'd buy the groceries if they bought the pizza or Chinese and at one point sent a chemistry joke to his little brother. The normality of the fact alarmed him.

Which was the whole reason he was interested on knowing what John's reaction would be to the fact that the little thief was acting irregular.

"But you do keep tabs on her don't you?" he asked, or rather, stated.

He smiled thinly. "What is it exactly that you're worried about? I assure you that she's more than capable of taking care of herself"

John simply nodded and left.

* * *

Three hours…

He rooted for the detective. Patience was essential for a sniper, yes, but oh, that didn't mean he had to like it. He could sit still for so long, so often, focused on one thing, mind blank, barely breathing, poised and ready…

But he preferred not to. His favourite part was the moment right before he hit the trigger. The waiting was foreplay to that moment. The fact that he did not even get to do it made him grumpy.

The sniper moved for the first time in nine hours, packing his weapon and sitting at the driver's seat. As he left the parking lot, he waited for a signal.

The woman's name was Mary Williams; she had lived in Cornwall and had recently gone through a divorce from a cheating husband. She'd never had any children due to a particularly ambitious career path and the unconscious knowledge that, in fact, her husband had never truly loved her. She hadn't even felt like a mother and the thought had scared her.

Her favourite food was peanut butter pancakes and she always liked having something green on her person. It didn't feel odd to know someone in intimate details and then kill them. He was a professional. He knew everything to the amount of coffee she needed to wake up and by morning, he'd forget everything and learn about someone new.

The lack of caffeine and food hit him all at once and he shook his head, gently slowing down, just to be sure.

The cars had been sent even before the choice had been made. If he knew the boss, then teams would have been spread out near all of the choices, but the most important one – the best – had been sent for her.

Maybe he'd get a couple of hours of sleep before the other call came.

* * *

"Well done, you. Come and get me"

Three hours to spare.

"Where are you? Tell us where you are" Sherlock enunciated.

Lestrade acted fast, which was the thing to do and Sherlock got his ego boost. He felt exceptionally well, like a formidable wind was at his sails, a small, barely seen superior smile at his lips.

Oh, they hadn't gone to the rescue. The police had that and most likely, men in funny suits, experts at dealing with explosives had been dispatched so fast their heads spun. Then there were the reports, useless of course, something on which Sherlock was willing to bet his skull.

The woman knew nothing. She was, essentially, nothing. A pawn, leverage, bait and a thousand other words that indicated detached and limited usage. No matter how much John would have shook his head muttering 'bit not good, Sherlock' at him, it was very hard to see her as something else, when that had been her entire purpose.

Chosen at random was floating in his head. Someone not important enough to kill outright, but not someone he'd want to keep alive either. Dispensable. There were thousands – millions – of that sort of people in Britain.

His tea had gone cold on the table, but Sherlock didn't care.

A matching situation could be found in the armchair opposite his, where John had taken Mycroft's case to heart. Normal people wouldn't have cared, Sherlock didn't care and there was John, trying to make sense of it just because…because he thought it was right.

"You know, you should be the one reading this" he commented, noting his attention. "I think your brother suspects something, anyway"

The detective made a face, waving his hand with disinterest. Mycroft and his cases. As if he didn't keep the best and most interesting for himself, to solve in his intimate surroundings, leaving Sherlock with either the dregs or the ones that actually required some old-fashioned running around.

And even then, he made an educated guess that more often than not ended up being the solution.

In the intimate part of his thoughts, the ones he alone was privy to, the ones ever _he_ rarely visited, he knew that he hated being second fiddle. He was a solo violinist, sometimes accompanied by John, because he could clap at the end, but solo nonetheless. And Mycroft tended to have his own solos eclipse his.

John checked his phone as he had done for most of the day, only to adopt the same worried-cum-disappointed look before resuming his lecture.

"Problem?"

"Hm?" his flatmate raised his eyes. "I think Milo's upset with us"

The steepled hands were lowered. "Why?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You mean, besides the fact that she used to always be here and eat our food or come on cases and now she's not even answering her phone?" he asked, pointing out a distinctly Milo-shaped hole in the house.

They'd only known each other for a month or so, but in that time her constant coming and going, appearances for lunch and stashing of favoured snacks had made her something of a permanent fixture that neither of them even commented on.

John hadn't even known that many kinds of chocolate bars existed in the world until he opened a drawer that suddenly overflowed. Between the candy and Sherlock's … body remains, the house felt like the hideout of a cannibalistic Willy Wonka. He didn't mind, because another relatively sane person was welcome and because, well, because to John, she had seemed lonely.

He knew what it was like to be lonely and felt like no one should be, especially if they didn't want to.

"Why would she be upset?" Sherlock asked, without much interest. Because, in truth, he didn't care. She hadn't been annoying him and she hadn't been too interesting so her presence or lack of it failed to get a response from him.

"Well, she looked upset this morning"

"That was probably Mycroft" he replied and bringing his hands back to his mouth, silently indicated that said conversation was over.

John was not, in fact, convinced. He turned back to the reports, however, looking over them and trying to see like Sherlock did. He had the flash drive…he went to the station…he had his brain bashed …

Whatever he was seeing looked very much like suicide and if there was something else there, he was fairly sure he didn't see it. Or maybe he did.

He didn't know what he was seeing any more.

It had been a busy day and his eyes felt like closing. He forced them open only to look around. Sherlock hadn't moved – wouldn't move.

"I'm off to bed" he muttered, waiting for acknowledgement. He remained waiting for a few more seconds before shaking his head and going upstairs.

Sherlock muttered a 'goodnight' intelligibly, after the man had already closed the door and remained with his thoughts. It wouldn't…couldn't be the end of it. There were four more pips waiting for him and he would be there, awake, to receive them.

He was not tired, couldn't be tired, not with the wind…

The wind…

He didn't notice the hours slowly trickling away, just him and his thoughts, rushing a mile a minute, wind in his sails.

* * *

Lewis had things to do, people to bribe, calls to make. It was particularly difficult.

That was the thing he hated, the names, the mystery…

He hated his name. _Appleby_ wasn't the sort of name he'd been attached to and sometimes he thought of changing it but then, he knew deep inside of his mind that he'd always know. He was a born Appleby and he would die one as well. He could only hope that he could make it count with the bit in the middle.

Lewis was raised on the belief that names were powerful, if only because they were yours. Names determined a person's identity, defined it, as it were. Watching someone closely enough could help determine their name.

How many times has 'He doesn't look like a…" or "She acts like a…" been uttered?

Emilia Rivers wore her name lightly and moved often.

It was useful, because other people rarely did and so, she could become someone else with frightening regularity. Frightening to Lewis, at least, who couldn't imagine flinching on the streets every time someone's name was called out.

He'd combed through at least twenty of her identities, double-checked, and tried to remember just how and where it all fit. She was attached to a couple of them. For one, the name she introduced herself by, at least in London. He knew that because it wasn't on any of her papers and she was comfortable enough sharing it. Which probably wasn't a possibility with 'Sarah Jonas' who had a tax investigation pending.

He finally found an appropriate folder and took out its contents on the floor. For a person who couldn't keep a house full of only a mattress and a fridge, clean, the archiving of all the data was fairly remarkable.

And it had dawned on him from the beginning that it was very useful to use…for her or against her.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm very sorry for the delay in updates and that this chapter is smaller than the rest. Life and its wiles kept me away. While it does that, I will probably update at least once a month and I'll speed it up once I'm free again.

If it's a bit slow, well, I'm still setting the scene and of course, we all know the episode so I shall try and make it more diverse. And Milo is being discussed a lot to add variety to the descriptions of what viewers already know. She would really have no place alongside them for this adventure as she could solve at least one of the cases far faster than Sherlock (the art one, of course). And it's always good to keep the mystery up. Besides, she has her own problems anyway.


End file.
